Heart over Mind
by Regann
Summary: PART 27 ADDED, COMPLETE. Something odd about Hermione causes her to have unexpected reaction to a love potion. Only it's one which no one expected. How could a lack of reaction cause so much trouble? AU to Books 5 and 6.
1. In all of her wisdom

**Heart over mind : Part I**

  
_Disclaimer & Notes_: If Squaresoft has no reason to sue me, then neither should JK Rowling; I'm making no money from this -- if I were, I'd update more often. This was originally called "An Odd Occurence," but I have since reworked it and thus it deserved a new title. Please, enjoy.  


  
  
***

Despite her long-held belief that professors were to be respected and rarely gainsaid, even Hermione Granger had been a little dubious about their latest topic in Potions. In her mind, the last topic which the seventh-years needed to be studying was something as seemingly useless as love potions. Even after seven years of magic education, love potions still smacked of ridiculous to someone raised in the Muggle world; the idea of such a thing reminded the girl of those silly movies which came on late nights, or silly songs about kissing policeman. Coupled with their dubious reputation even among wizards, even Hermione had been unsure of their importance.   


As usual, she had read the chapters which Snape had assigned them, but had merely thought that the extensive background had been just that -- background. It wasn't until she had finished those readings that she had understood exactly why the concoctions would be study-worthy for witches and wizards about to enter the real world, one which was plagued with danger and intrigue.   


"We're doing _what_?!"   


"Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley. And five more if you don't stop gaping at me like a fish!"   


Unfortunately -- and, Hermione added to herself, as usual -- she was apparently the _only_ person to have completed the assigned readings and so the other students in the Gryffindor/Slytherin classroom were taken by surprise and dismay by the unusual subject. She settled into her seat, sighing as the inevitable sniping of Hogwarts' least favorite teacher began.   


"Since some of you seem surprised by my current choices of topics," sneered the Potions Master, black robes billowing around him as he moved through his classroom. "Perhaps one of your classmates would like to enlighten you as to the importance of this topic?" His black eyes swept the classroom. "Anyone?"   


As if by instinct, Hermione's hand shot up, although it was without the overenthusiastic hand-waving which had characterized her as first-year. Snape looked over her as if she were invisible. "Anyone?" he asked again, his silky voice deceptively soft. "Mr. Malfoy, perhaps you could enlighten us?" Draco's pale head shook slightly as he tried to shrink away from his Head of House's dark gaze which watched him disapprovingly. "I see. Can anyone _other_ than Miss Granger answer my question?"   


When no one else offered, Hermione couldn't help the flicker of satisfaction which crossed her face as Professor Snape sighed dramatically, his voice heavy with resignation. "Very then, Miss Granger. Why are we studying these particular love potions?"   


"Because the magical theories which are the basis for these particular kind of love potions are the same fundamental ideas which are employed in most other kinds of coercion magic, such as the Imperius Curse."   


"As usual, Miss Granger, you've managed to do what you do best -- be an annoying know-it-all. But you are correct."   


The snickering of the Slytherins at Snape's cutting remark did little to unnerve the witch; if she had learned nothing else in her seven years of Potions' classes, it was how to suffer the brunt of stinging and undeserved criticism.   


"As you would know if you had read for assignment," the professor continued, sneering superiority in his rich voice. "The coercive elements of today's potion can have a variety of different uses in different potions, especially when used in tandem with darker ingredients. _And_ those potions are far more dangerous than the Imperius Curse. In this form, a victim is virtually defenseless against its effects once it has been imbibed." He paused dramatically, waiting for the reactions which his words would cause. A few seconds later, a noticeable nervous ripple went through the Gryffindor half of the classroom, Hermione among them. She knew that her class-mates were recalling the rather blunt display of the Imperius' power during their 4th year Defense Against the Dart Arts class, when Professor Crouch/Moody had introduced them to the Unforgivable Curses. It had been sobering then, to think that someone had the ability to make them do whatever they wanted but it had been tempered by the knowledge that one could build an intolerance against it; Harry had done so quickly. But with these potions available and no way to defend one's self….Hermione shuddered almost imperceptibly at that thought.   


However, the slight movement had not gone unnoticed by the dour instructor. "Don't worry yourself, Miss Granger," he mockingly consoled her. "If you brew your potion correctly, you'll learn that these potions have a very unique and _disturbing_ taste and smell. All of you -- with a few notable exceptions -- should, at the very least, be bright enough to recognize it as unpalatable before you drink it under other circumstances." As he spoke of exceptions, his scowl had lingered on Herimone's lab partner, causing Neville Longbottom to cringe in mortification from the obvious insult being hurled his way.   


Without another word or a glance toward the menacing look which Hermione was giving him, Snape turned his back on the class and began to write out the ingredients which they would need for lab work. She, of course, knew most of them from her readings, but still faithfully jotted them down before she began to set her and Neville's cauldron, whispering soothing words of wisdom to the nervous boy at her side as she did so. Hermione had always hoped that one day the young boy would have gotten over the debilitating fear which took hold on him every time their Potions professor was near but, after seven years and little change, she had given up on that particular dream. She now only prayed that he would last long enough to take his NEWTs at the end of the spring term.   


She carefully ground the small amount of frozen Ashwinder eggs needed for the spell in her marble mortar while she set Neville to chopping the dried banwort petals despite the slight shake in his hands as he handled the sharp knife. Even as she concentrated on the task at hand, she focused her ears on Snape as he gave more detailed instructions. "Once the potions -- which I assure you has been sufficiently modified as to have limited effect time-wise -- have cooled, each of you will need your partner's hair to be added to your flask before you sample it. This is another reason which makes these potions difficult to prepare. They are rather like the Polyjuice potion in that way."   


The Gryffindor witch couldn't stop another involuntary shudder from shaking her shoulders at _that_ memory. Being covered in fur from a botched try at the Polyjuice potion had certainly made her wary of anything which offered to change her outward appearance. She now chose to do that under the watchful eye of her Transfiguration professor under whom she was studying to be an animagus. No need to repeat past mistakes, she assured herself quickly.   


Finally, the potion began to thicken and deepen to a rather unsavory green while Hermione stirred briskly, its viscosity reminding her of instant pudding; a thought which lightened the terse mood of the class. It seemed, if it were at all possible, that dungeon classroom was even more tense than usual. Most likely due to the current topic, she realized. Most people were probably dreading just how strong the completed potion would be, and Hermione knew that a strong potion would cause many of the students to act in a way which would embarrass them once the effects were gone. She, however, wasn't worried. Having actually _read_ the chapter, she was aware that the strength at which they were brewing, the result would be weak.   


As the potion cooled, Hermione noticed that Snape had been correct about the smell. It was a pungent aroma, strong and caustic. In truth, it reminded her of ammonia, a basic solution used in Muggle cleaning agents, particularly glass cleaner. She wrinkled her nose whenever she accidentally wafted some of the scent toward her face as she stirred. Once she had carefully ladled half of the mixture into each of the flaks, she turned to Neville. "I'll need a bit of your hair." He nodded, leaning toward her so that she could snip a few strands the fine hairs at his nape. "All done."   


He gave her a timid smile. "Much easier than when my gran cuts my hair on holidays. She won't use magic -- says it never comes out right. I always fidget and she trims it uneven."   


"That happens to me even when I don't fidget," Hermione told him as she trimmed a few curly wisps from her long, tangled hair. "It kinks up so much that the hairdresser can never cut it straight."   


Neville, taking the proffered hair sample, dropped the strands into his own cup whilst his partner did the same with the hair she'd plucked from him. Like everyone else, they stopped at that stage, waiting for further instructions.   


From his place on the dais, Snape nodded slightly when he noticed that everyone had made it up to that point in the potions-making process without having had anything explode. All in all, it was shaping up to be an unusually peaceful class. "Very well then, now that everyone's potions should be ready, it's time to test. Remember -- try and record your experiences and emotions under the potion's influence, particularly the compulsion aspect. Such information _might_ prove useful on the next exam." He waved his hand at them, long black sleeve flowing behind the motion. "Go on."   


"Here goes nothing," she grinned at Neville as she lifted her flask.   


He did the same. "Bottoms up, I guess." Without another thought, he downed the contents, wincing at the taste.   


The rest of the class was doing the same. Behind them, Ron was gagging on his while Harry groaned, "Ugh. It tastes worse than it smells."   


Hermione paused before ingesting her own foul-smelling green brew, taking a moment to form an hypothesis about exactly how she would feel once she had taken the love potion. It was a logical step in any kind of experiment, to make such suppositions. It was part of her orderly and sharp thinking to do so, as well as her Muggle background since her teachers had pounded the "scientific" method into her head since grade school.   


From Snape's description and her own reading, she concluded that it was supposed to act very much like a potion form of the Imperius; she wondered if she would feel like she had when she had been put under the Imperius during 4th-year Defense Against the Dark Arts. That wonderful, floating feeling of complete submission, the vague happiness as one complied with the orders given. It couldn't be exactly the same, she mused, but it was a close estimation.   


With that decided, she tipped back her ammonia-scented drink and gulped.   


And then she winced, recoiling against the taste. _Dear God, that's horrible!_ she moaned to herself, taking care to note in the back of her mind the precise descriptors she would need to adequately describe the vile concoction in the report they would be required to write.   


Hermione set the flask on the desk with a clink, waiting for the potion to take effect. She glanced over at Neville who seemed to be regarding her with a faintly goofy but shy grin, his face suffused with pink as she leaned closer to whisper, "Did yours work?"   


Turning an even brighter shade of pink, he nodded dumbly, his smile a little wider.   


To say that Miss Granger was confused and frustrated would have been an understatement. She glanced back down at her notes, still waiting for some reaction to manifest itself. Something should have happened by now, she realized dejectedly, her brow furrowed in concentration. But nothing was happening to her. Hermione felt no more affection for Neville than she had when class had started, and she certainly felt no compulsion on her part to act on any imagined emotions. She bit her lip nervously, her mind rapidly going through the steps she had taken over the course of the brewing. Finding nothing amiss, she heaved a audible sigh of consternation.   


"A problem, Miss Granger?" Snape asked softly, stealthily approaching behind her so that she was completely surprised by his velvety voice in her ear. Startled, she jumped. "Miss Granger?"   


She looked up at him, her frustration apparent in her solemn brown eyes. "I don't understand it, sir."   


He raised an eyebrow at her uncharacteristic statement. "Am I to understand from that remark that you are not under the effects of the love potion?"   


She nodded morosely. "It…didn't work, Professor." She waved vaguely at her notes. "I'm sure I did everything correctly."   


At such a proclamation -- made by the resident genius, at that -- everyone's attention slowly wound its way from their own conversations, caught by the unusual scene unfolding at Hermione's workbench. For her part, she braced herself for a scathing comment about her obvious incompetence, steeling herself for the verbal blow. 

It never came, however, even though something like a sneer passed over Snape's face. "Yes, obviously," he told her coolly. "Mr. Longbottom's current state of infatuation with you attests to the fact that you somehow managed to brew the potion correctly. Perhaps….the problem lies within its administration."   


"I added the hairs," she assured him. "And then I drank it all despite its horrible ammonia smell. I--"   


The remainder of Hermione's sentence ended abruptly when her professor suddenly reached out and tilted her face upwards by the gentle pressure of one hand under her chin. His hand was pale and fine-boned, the long fingers cool and smooth on her skin as she was forced to look up, her eyes wide in confusion. Snape's dark eyes were examining her thoroughly, his face uncomfortably close to hers. His gaze lingered on her eyes before he released her. "Extremely odd," he murmured, stepping back.   


"Sir?"   


He closed his eyes briefly and sighed, as if asking to be delivered from curious young women who asked far too many questions. "Even if you had incorrectly administered the potion and therefore were free of the coercive effects, there would still be some physical indications. Dilated pupils, being the most obvious. The eyes also become glassy, unfocused. Your eyes, on the other hand, are as alert as usual."   


"Oh." Hermione wasn't certain what to say to _that_. "So, wh-what went wrong, then?"   


"As you should know, Miss Granger," Snape began, raising his voice as he moved away, heading back toward his desk. "There are ways to counter the effects of the Imperius. And these potions are related to that particular curse."   


"But you said that there was no defense against these kind of coercive potions," she protested darkly, becoming increasingly more baffled. Everyone else in the class had managed to brew the potion and drink it, causing each and every one of them to experience the correct reaction. What had she done wrong?   


"I said that there was _virtually_ no defense," he drawled dryly, although much of his attention was on the large, weathered tome in which he was furiously searching the yellowed pages which made a crisp sound as he flipped through them. "Few things are absolutely impossible, Miss Granger."   


"But there was no mention of any kind of defense in the text," she rebutted. "And the failure rate of such a potion is stated to only be at 1 in every 1000 correctly brewed and administered doses."   


"You've just proven yourself wrong and your own logic faulty," Snape returned, frowning as his eyes scanned the ornate scrawl of the old alchemy book. "As you have just quoted the figure which proves that there has to be a way to counter its effects or else that one failure in one-thousand would not result."   


Hermione gave him a dark look, but wisely kept her comments to herself. The rest of the seventh-years present were still watching the drama unfold in breathless anticipation, strangely quiet and the girl could feel their eyes on her. Malfoy spared a glance back at her to give self-satisfied smirk, as if she had botched the assignment solely for his amusement. She glowered back at him, her eyes glittering dangerously in a way which Harry and Ron knew meant serious trouble. They had always learned over the years that if there was one time in which Hermione's fundamentally kind nature would lose to her temper, it was when schoolwork was involved.   


"Here it is," the professor announced, running a pale finger down the aged page until it was pointing to a paragraph mid-way down the page. He quickly read through the words he found there, before glancing back at his unhappy student whose face was drawn as she waited for his answer. "The reason that this particular method of defense is not mentioned in most of the texts is that it is an unreliable one," he explained. "Unlike learning how to fend off the Imperius or slowly building an immunity against a poison by ingesting it, one is unable to master it through study. It is not based on knowledge or skill." His eyes darted away from Hermione and rested briefly on the bespectacled boy who sat behind her, his famous scar almost hidden by a fringe of unruly dark hair. "The fact of the matter is, Miss Granger," his voice was honed to its sarcastic edge. "That it appears to be all about love." He said the last word in the same tone of voice which most Muggles reserved for ideas such as 'magic' or 'the tooth fairy.'   


Hermione blinked at such an arcane comment while the Slytherin side of the classroom sniggered. "I beg your pardon, Professor? I don't believe I understand."   


He pinched the bridge of his nose in another gesture of irritation. "According to this very definitive work on the subject," he continued as he gestured to the book. "The only one way to be unaffected by this potion is to have a stronger will than the potion has power. In this case, since it _is_ a love potion…it seems that there's already a love in your heart too strong to be overridden by any coercive ingredients in that concoction."   


Snape's sardonic explanation had various effects throughout the dungeon classroom. The Slytherins' earlier sniggering rose to a collective chuckle, while the Gryfindoors seemed baffled by the new information. The witch, for her part, felt the color rising in her face but otherwise remained unruffled, still serious as she inquired, "What does that mean, exactly?"   


"You're being remarkably more dim-witted than usual today, Miss Granger," the instructor chastised, a smugness in the twitch of his lips which passed for an expression. He crossed his arms and descended the dais, his flowing robes rustling dramatically. When he was once again peering down at the girl, he asked, "I take it that you have fixed your affections on someone…have some secret _tendre_?" His half-smirk grew into something which passed for a smile as Hermione managed to burn a deeper crimson, the blush which stained her cheeks brilliantly bright against her fair skin. "Perhaps even for someone in this very room?"   


_Damn him and his maliciousness_, she silently cursed as she tried to remain calm, praying that her courage didn't desert her at this stage.   


"As I thought," Snape acknowledged, nodding. "Well, I must say that congratulations are in order. For it seems that you've found your soul mate." Again, he spoke of love in the derisive tone which he usually reserved for taunting Harry.   


"What!" she couldn't help yelping. _Was he actually suggesting that the someone she had that secret….fascination….with was her soul mate?!_  


"Yes, Miss Granger," he answered, as if he could read her mind although her thoughts were merely written plainly on her honest face. "According to _Iskiraat al-kimiya_, the only way one can successfully avoid the charms of that love potion is if their heart is too strong and too loyal to the one they love to be persuaded otherwise. A very rare occurrence, to find someone so young and yet so faithful." Hermione fought a scowl at his words, which he emphasized in a infuriatingly patronizing way which made it sound as if she were a dutiful puppy. Ignoring her disapproval, he went on. "I've only seen it once before myself, although it was a Hufflepuff who are pathetically too loyal as a rule _and_ this young woman was also engaged." Snape's dark eyes flashed down at her hands, one which lay on the desk while the other curled around her quill. "I see no ring on your finger."   


Any reply she may have made to that comment was cut off as Snape abruptly pulled his attention away from her and directed it to the entire class. "Everyone -- with the notable exception of Miss Granger -- will remain under the potions' effects for another hour or so. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, this is your last period of the day. Do try and behave yourselves; I know that I'd _hate_ to give any of you detention for impropriety. Dismissed."   


As everyone began to move around her, Hermione remained in her seat, her eyes fixed on an invisible point in space. Her mind, as quick and logical as it was, couldn't quite wrap itself around what had come to light in the space of one potions class. Was she really supposed to believe that what she considered to be a school-girl infatuation was actually something deep and eternal? Only if she'd lost her mind, she decided, could that be true.   


"Since I doubt that your heart has impaired your hearing, why are you still here?" Snape asked dryly, one eyebrow raised.   


Scowling and still fighting a blush, Hermione quickly packed her supplies away in her worn leather bag before slinging it over her shoulder and darting out of the classroom, her head held high, her mind churning.   


She didn't see the askance glance the acerbic professor sent her way as she did so, or the puzzled look on his face as he too wondered about the events which had transpired.   
  
  


***

  
  
_Author's notes_ : The potion ingredients came from a few different places: Ashwinder eggs from _Fantastic Beasts_; banwort is the archaic Anglo-Saxon word for pansy flowers and I found an old love spell (from a book I purchased at an occult shop) which calls for pansy flowers, fire-ashes and the victim's hair. The name of Snape's alchemical book is Iskiraat al-kimiya, which is in Arabic and should translate into "Alchemy Elixirs." If I have butchered this language, I'm very sorry but I figured fewer of my readers would know Arabic as opposed to Latin which I'm only slightly better with. The term 'tendre' is French, but it was a vogue term in Regency England to refer to someone's love interest. The title of this part is from the Stevie Nicks's song, "The Nightmare." I hope that explains anything which needed so. I'd also like to apologize for any blatant American phrases but I am American and I don't want to offend any British persons by a horrible attempt at "writing British." This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction which is longer than 100 words, so please bear with me. Also, all constructive comments/reviews are welcome. I'm rambling, so I'll stop now. 


	2. She consults her book of Miracles

**Heart over mind : Part II  
She consults her book of Miracles**

  
  


***

  
  


When in doubt -- which she was -- Hermione knew the one place where she could hope to find answers. It was the place where they had found information on Nicholas Flamel in their first year and where she had found basilisk -- in more ways than one -- in her second year. It was a sanctuary to one such as herself who loved knowledge and books and quietude. It was, of course, the library.   


The library, despite the lofty and divine connotations it had in Hermione's mind, did not prove helpful to her initially. She had easily found the school copy of _Iskiraat al-kimiya_, a battered text of oversized pages filled with dark, bold calligraphy. Unfortunately, those elegant lines were Arabic, as the volume was one of the original copies scribed in Cordoba during the late 14th century. Since Hermione's repertoire of foreign languages did not include Arabic, the find was depressing. Another half-hour search, however, amidst the expansive rows of shelves found her in the Transliteration section of the library, a rather small collection sandwiched between the huge Transfiguration section and the half-shelf of tomes written about Transmigration. While it was admittedly a topic she had rarely never had the need to study before, she expertly worked her way through the materials until she found slightly more modern edition of _Iskiraat al-kimiya_ -- or, _Alchemical Elixirs_ -- translated into English, complete with swirling reproductions of the calligraphic illustrations.   


Hefting the oversized book back to a secluded corner beneath a tall window, she poured over the text, oblivious to the warm afternoon sun which bounced off the mahogany wood of the table, causing the polished grain to gleam. As she had habit to do with she was consumed with her pursuit of knowledge, Hermione had absently twisted her hair away from her face in a contorted version of a bun, the honey tresses haphazardly held in place by a quill stabbed through the tangle.   


It took a little more than another half-hour before she found what she had been looking for, buried deep in the pages of the alchemical work, under 'mind-shaping potions' and cross-referenced under 'love spells.' She greedily plunged into the reading, one hand running the lines as she quickly read the information. Written after the ingredients which she had used in class that day, a paragraph followed in which was discussed information on the aforementioned potion, including a brief history and possible side effects:   
  
  


"This hypnotic love potion is the strongest of all because there is no such spell nor counter-measure known to negate its effects. Only in the rarest occurrences have a select few been able to escape the ingestion of said elixir without submitting to its coercive properties. In each case, it has been observed that only those who held within their hearts the greatest and most constant of loves for their mates were left unaffected. Over the centuries, this fool-proof method of fidelity and affection has been used by men to test their current and potential wives. Sadly, most women -- even the seemingly most devoted -- fail this trial. The last known woman to have successfully resisted the effects was the Princess Nadir'ah, daughter of the last wizard Caliph of Damascus. It is said that this only occurs when the one held in such affection is the drinker's destined partner… "  
  
  


After re-reading the paragraph a second time, Hermione closed her eyes in defeat, slumping over the desk as she rested her head in her hands. _Sometimes_, she thought morosely. _There's no point in waking up in the morning._   


Surrounded by the silent, calm atmosphere of the empty library, she finally allowed herself to admit what exactly her reaction to the love potion had illuminated. According to the information, it only worked in such a way because she…was destined? to...love? the person who she currently held in her heart. _Him_. And that … attachment was so strong that it overrode the most powerful of love elixirs. It had not been the most ideal way to discover that what she had thought of as only a passing admiration, born of too much stress and too little sleep, was something more. That he was, in fact, her…what?   


Soul mate?   


Only is fate is cruel and unusual, she grimaced inwardly. The mere idea of that was madness, in her opinion. Whatever she felt for him -- outside of the more mundane emotions of dislike and annoyance -- was nothing more than a strange and morbid fascination. Maybe even simple curiosity. In Hermione's estimation, her enigmatic opinion of Professor Snape was akin to the odd but all-consuming interest she had developed for Muggle forensic science during the summer between third year and fourth year. She had spent a month of her vacation before going to the Burrow researching on the topic: science books, true-crime books, television documentaries. It was dark, disturbing in many ways, but it was also intellectually stimulating, and beautiful in the same way which mathematics were to logicians, a beauty more of the perfect balance of knowledge and intuition. And those were the exact same sentiments that she would use to describe how she felt for him. Repulsed on one level by the darkness of the fascinating object, but attracted to it on another, and pulled in by the mystery. Because, if Severus Snape was anything other than a snarling, sarcastically malicious professor…it was a puzzle. Not to mention a challenging one at that.   


Unfortunately, puzzles and challenges were Hermione's Achilles heel.   


She blamed it all on her mother. Her mother, a brilliant maxi-facial surgeon, had always encouraged her to learn, to think for herself and to always do her best. Caroline Granger had fostered in her daughter a joy in always challenging herself, always striving to learn more, to more fully understand whatever it was which caught her attention and imagination. Those words of wisdom had created a stubborn, opinionated, scholastic-minded daughter who rarely failed and who refused to be defeated. All of those traits were the ones which made her one of the brightest students to ever attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as well as Harry Potter's valued ally in thwarting the Dark forces which plagued him. Unfortunately, those same traits were the ones which had caused her to be intrigued with her bastard of a professor.   


All things considered, she saw nothing in her feelings toward him which she would consider a good basis for a lasting relationship of any kind.   


"I thought I'd find you in here."   


The softly spoken comment drew Hermione away from her dismal thoughts as she glanced up to smile at the speaker. "Oh, you know me, Harry," she said breezily, watching him take a seat opposite her. "The library is my second home."   


"Yeah, I know." Harry returned her smile, brushing back his messy hair. Behind his glasses, his green eyes ran over the large book which she was currently using for an elbow rest. "Let me guess. That wouldn't happen to be "Iskiraata kimya," would it?"   


"That's _Iskiraat al-kimiya_ and yes, it is." she gently corrected, another habit too ingrained to resist.   


He shrugged good-naturedly and continued. "Potions was…different today."   


"Oh, I should say more than merely different."   


Harry grinned mischievously. "I would, too. I just didn't want you to yell at me."   


She raised an eyebrow at him. "Thanks."   


"So what did the book have to say?"   


The girl groaned. "The same thing Snape did, except without the unappreciated sarcasm."   


Her friend's eyes widened in surprise. "So, it's true? You weren't affected because you're in love with your soul mate?"   


"So it would seem," she sighed. "Although, I am certain that I'm not in love with anyone. Particularly not someone with whom I plan on spending the remainder of my very long life."   


"But you do have a crush on someone, don't you?" he wondered.   


Hermione's face darkened further. "No. What I feel for…this person…is most certainly not a crush!"   


Harry suddenly seemed nervous and he looked away from his friend, choosing to gaze out over the shelves as he asked. " 'Mione, don't get mad or anything but….I mean, who is it? You've never mentioned it to me or Ron or Ginny or Pa---"   


"Harry," she said warningly.   


He turned back to face her, grabbing her hands in his. "Just tell me it's not Malfoy," he urged, a hint of pleading in his voice.   


She looked at him for a moment, her eyes stormy while her face remained impassive. Then, she began to giggle.   


"Is that a good sign or a bad sign?"   


She laughed heartily. "I'm not sure," she admitted between chuckles. "But you just looked so…adorably….pathetic and….all the stress from this whole situation…" She composed herself, gently squeezing his hands. "I assure you that it's _not_ Malfoy."   


He gave her a big grin, relief evident on his features. "Thank god! I was so worried. You've made me very happy, saying that."   


"You look it," she teased, her hands still in his.   


Catching the teasing quirk of her lips as she tried not to smile, Harry added. "In fact, I'm probably the happiest person in the world at this moment. Especially compared to how I felt a few minutes ago when I was afraid you _were_ going to say Malfoy."   


"Give me a little credit," she said. _But not much,_ she added mentally.   


Harry stood up, still holding one of her hands. "You're a brilliant girl. I have faith in you." He tugged on the hand he still held. "Come on, let's head back to the common room. I need help with my Transfiguration homework."   


"And here I thought that you were just a concerned friend," she complained, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet.   


"I am," he assured as he watched her sling her bag over her shoulder. He draped his arm around her shoulders as they headed toward the exit. "I'm a concerned friend with a problem in Transfiguration."   


She leaned into the affectionate gesture. "I feel sooo loved," she deadpanned.   


"You know I love you…just not like that."   


"A good thing, too." She paused shortly before they stepped out of the library. "Because you certainly aren't my…uh…"   


"Soul-mate," he supplied in mock-innocence.   


"I'd rather not call it that, thanks."   


"True love?" he teased.   


"You're very close to death, Harry. Don't push me or I might do You-Know-Who a favor."   


"Life partner," he continued, still grinning, as if he hadn't heard her.   


"_Whatever,_ you want to call it," she ground out, elbowing him sharply in the ribs. "You aren't it."   


"Ow!" he complained, pulling away from her. They stopped walking and she turned to watch him rub his sore side. "All this abuse and here I was worried about you."   


"Yeah, yeah," she rolled her eyes, grinning.   


Harry's eyes twinkled in a very-Dumbledore-like way. "Don't worry, I forgive you. Blame it on the stress and all."   


After promising to refrain from any more bodily harm, the friends -- still joking -- continued on their long trek back to the Gryffindor Tower. Out of the blue, Harry commented, "Lavender is going to be very unhappy, you know. She bet Parvati a galleon that I was your 'secret love' -- her phrase, not mine," he hastened to add. "Parvati said that she was certain it wasn't me -- her mystical eye told her who it really was."   


"And who was that?" Hermione had to know, despite the fact that she was supposed to be affronted by the fact that her friends were betting on her in such a fashion.   


"Seems her mystical eye is backing Ron, as are a few others. They've about got a bloody betting pool going in the Tower."   


"Who else is in on it?" she asked, incredulous. She would have thought that they would have had better things to do than to speculate on who might have her affections. Particularly, when she was certain that the truth was far too strange for any of them to fathom.   


"Most of the 6th and 7th years," he revealed. "The votes seem mainly to be for me or Ron; there's been one for Malfoy -- thank God that that one was false -- and a 5th year guessed _Neville_ of all people."   


She shook her head in dismay. "And what about you? What have you and Ron have to say on the subject?"   


Harry shrugged. "We haven't really talked about it. Except for a shared moment of horror that it could be Malfoy, it hasn't been a topic of conversation. Personally, the way I see it…" He paused, looking uncertain once again. His face was open and honest, his expression diffident but sincere. "Like I said, you're a smart girl. And, according to Snape, this isn't some crazy fancy but something that's strong enough even to override very powerful magic. Whoever it is, you must really care for them…or, you will, sometime in the future. Professor Lupin said he's never heard of this happening to anyone he knew -- not even to my mum and dad when they made the potion in their class. But he has heard tales about the bond that two people have to have….he says it's seen as if it were a cosmic thing."   


"You told Professor Lupin about this?" she gaped, eyes wide. "I thought you just said that you haven't talked about it."   


"I said, I haven't talked about it with Ron," he reminded her. "Come on, Hermione. I saw how the whole thing distressed you were in Potions and I wanted to know more about it. I wasn't going to trust what Snape said but I'm not like you -- the library is not exactly the first place I think about."   


"No," she admitted dryly. "That'd be the Quidditch pitch."   


His only answer to that was to smile wickedly and swing his arm around her once again, changing the subject back to his problem in Transfiguration.   
  


*****

  
  


Meanwhile, Professor Remus Lupin -- in his second, non-consecutive year as the DADA instructor -- had a number of student essays spread across the large, round table before him, as he thoughtfully read one of them, his quill poised in one hand to make corrections or comments. Across from him, with her papers in much neater stacks, Professor McGonagall was engaged similarly, grading papers with a speed and skill gained from many years in the profession. The only other person currently in the room was the potions master, who sat off by himself in one of the room's corners, a large tome balanced on his black-clad knees. With all three professors working diligently, the staffroom was comfortably quiet except for the occasional popping of the wood in the fireplace. _Someone must have added cedar,_ Lupin thought absently as he heard the fire crackle once again.   


"The same thing, every year," McGonagall muttered under her breath as she laid another red-marked assignment on the top of one of her neat piles. "I wonder why children seem to make the exact same mistakes every year?"   


"Most likely because the same things remain difficult for them," Remus responded thoughtfully. "I know, even now, I'd rather not rely on my potions-making ability for anything past the knowledge of a third-year. It was something which never came easy for me in school and something I've neglected entirely as an adult."   


"Perhaps," she conceded. "I'm more likely to blame bad habits -- once made, they are much more difficult to break." Her eyes narrowed as she flicked her quill across one of the essays. "Even after four years, Mr. Whitby has yet to spell 'Transfiguration' correctly twice in one essay."   


That comment won a snorting exhalation of breath which was considered a laugh when passing through Severus Snape's lips. "Let me assure you, Professor McGonagall, that spelling is not only realm of education in which Mr. Whitby is seriously lacking. That deficiency is joined by one in Potions."   


Remus was amused by his colleague's comment. "That can't be taken at face-value, of course," he reminded the elder witch. "Everyone knows Severus is unduly hard on most of his students. I'm certain -- in his opinion -- that there isn't one student who isn't seriously lacking in his classes."   


"Call it what you will, Lupin," returned he coolly. "But I daresay that your estimation of my opinion is correct. What little hope I may have ever held for the future of the wizarding world died the moment I first set foot in a classroom. And current ones are as idiotic as I have ever seen my 18 years' of instruction."   


"Severus!" Minerva admonished hastily. "You can't mean that."   


"Oh, but I can."   


Professor Lupin looked at Snape carefully. "Oh, come now. Even _you_ must see potential in one student out of the whole lot."   


"Is this some kind of flimsy ploy to persuade me that Potter deserves a higher grade?" he wanted to know, his dark eyes watching the werewolf suspiciously from across the room, his book still open.   


"No," Remus answered truthfully. "But surely, you won't have me believe that there's no one in this school who has some ability in Potions?"   


A frown creased Snape's sallow face, the contortion of facial muscles causing his limp dark hair to fall forward across his forehead. "Young Malfoy proves adequate in my class."   


The DADA professor mimicked the gesture, casting his normally pleasant face in a solemn light. "And what of Hermione Granger?" he asked softly. "Can you honestly say -- between we three here -- that she does not prove as 'adequate' as Malfoy? That she, one of the best students in too many years to count, isn't up to your standard?"   


His colleague scowled at the questions, yet was hesitant to answer them immediately. Instead, he glanced down at the book he had been reading, his eyes searching the opened page. Finally, he grudgingly admitted, "Miss Granger's work has proved adequate, insofar as the actual product is concerned. Her attitude and behavior, _on the other hand_, have left something to be desired."   


The small concession seemed to relax Remus and the faint lines of tension in his face eased. He returned his attention to the messy sprawl of parchment which he was trying to organize.   


"Glad to see that House loyalty hasn't blinded you completely," sniffed the Head of Gryffindor.   


Another length of silence followed Minerva's comment, time during which Snape continued to read through his dusty volume while the fire popped and burned in valiant combat against the perpetual damp coldness of the mighty stone castle. It was not until he had managed to stack his mountains of students' work into four serviceable piles that Remus spoke again, something mischievous in his amber-flecked eyes which made him look years younger. "Speaking of Miss Granger," he began, as if there had been no lapse in conversation. "I heard that something odd happened with her during class this afternoon."   


"I didn't realize that you were so concerned with Miss Granger," Snape responded, not pausing in his perusal of the book he held. "I thought that honor lay singularly with Mr. Potter."   


"What happened?" Professor McGonagall asked anxiously, the paper she had been grading forgotten. "She's not injured, is she?"   


"Calm yourself, Minerva," Snape sighed. "Your precious protégé is alive and well."   


"Then what happened which was so odd?" she questioned.   


When Snape made no answer except an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, Lupin explained. "Harry came to me after class," he told her. "It seems that the seventh-years were working on love potions with highly coercive properties today in Potions."   


"You mean, the _hayam_ potion?" she deduced.   


"The very same," he affirmed, nodding so that his gray-threaded hair swung loosely around his face. "And Hermione wasn't affected….at all."   


"Wasn't….affected?" McGonagall, who had been leaning forward in anticipation of the tale, settled back against the high back of her chair, a pensive look of pleasant surprise on her face. "How unexpected."   


"That's what I thought when I heard the tale myself," Remus said. "It seems that someone is a very lucky fellow."   


"Indeed," she agreed. "Miss Granger is an extraordinary young woman." She smiled. "Any ideas who the boy might be?"   


Lupin shrugged. "Harry had none," he revealed. "I asked if it could be him or Ron, but he didn't place much credence in it. He's completely baffled by the whole thing."   


"It's so very rare," McGonagall pronounced, glancing toward the seemingly uninterested Slytherin. "When was the last time this happened here? 1985, I think?"   


"Yes, a Hufflepuff," Snape replied absently. "As I told Miss Granger, in class. A very rare occurrence, indeed."   


"And before that, it had been decades," she went on. "Children usually haven't their true matches by the time they've graduated from school. Takes them a few more years."   


"Or even longer," chuckled the werewolf. "Speaking for myself and all other bachelors."   


The elder witch nodded her head in agreement as she retrieved the essay she'd been grading. She scanned a few paragraphs before admitting, "At the risk of sounding like the nosy old woman I am, I really I liked to know who the young man is. I find it hard to believe that it isn't one of those two boys."   


Remus straightened one of his stacks. "Harry doesn't seem to think so, and one would think he'd know but he _is_ a bit … unobservant at times, I suppose. But perhaps it's someone else…maybe Seamus or Dean? And then there's that Ravenclaw she studies Arithmancy with."   


With a harsh sound of disgust in the back of his throat, Snape rose to his feet, his heavy book tucked under his arm. "If you'll excuse me," he told them, as he crossed to the staffroom door. "But I'd rather not remain for this remainder of this _enthralling_ conversation about Miss Granger's personal life. As if having her in my classroom isn't punishment enough."   


He disappeared on the other side of the door, so quickly that neither of his colleagues noticed the book which he had been reading.   


A deep wine-colored leather-bound volume, its title written in faded gilt script: _Love & Loyalty : the legend of the Hayam_.   
  
  


*****

_Author's Notes_: "Hayam" is an Arabic name which means "deliriously in love," which makes a rather nice name for a love potion. A caliph is a ruler and Damascus is a lovely ancient city in present-day Syria. Cordoba was an Islamic caliphate (kingdom) in Spain until the 15th century. And, if there's anyone who doesn't think that their teachers don't gossip about them, take my word for it -- they do! I was a teaching assistant in high school and now I'm a teacher-in-training. Educators are extremely nosy and gossipy. Title is from the song "Juliette." Please review! 


	3. As friends often do

**Heart over mind : Part III  
As friends often do  
**

  


***

  
  


Hermione was looking forward to dinner that night with as much enthusiasm as _conversos_ must have looked forward to the Spanish Inquisition and she expected no less than that as she was dragged by her two best friends toward the Great Hall. Of course, for propriety's sake, the young men weren't actually dragging her -- they flanked her on both sides, each with a firm grip on her elbow to make escape impossible. The situation left her with two choices: follow quietly or scream bloody murder. For a moment, she almost opted for the second one.   


Shaking off their hands, she glared at them. "I am capable of going to dinner by myself. I know where the Hall is."   


"We know 'Mione," Ron nodded, speaking to her in the soothing tones usually reserved for the dangerous, easily offended creatures in Hagrid's lessons. "But we just thought it'd be nice if we all walked down together."   


"Of course," she snorted, tossing her head haughtily. "I think that both of you are having just a little too much fun at my expense."   


When faced with a direct accusation, the boys shuffled their feet and shrugged -- a sure sign that it was the truth. Hermione crossed her arms and waited. "We're just trying to show you our support," Ron rallied valiantly after a moment of quick thinking. "I mean, yeah -- it's rather funny but you know we only want to help."   


"You're our friend, and we've always faced difficulties together," added Harry. "No different this time."   


"And hiding in your dorm room isn't going to stop them from pestering you," Ron reminded her. "They'll just be after you next time."   


"Better to just get it done with tonight, right?"   


"Like what you say about homework, you know?"   


"Alright," she sighed, straightening her shoulders. "Let's go to dinner."   


Harry and Ron both grinned at her, pleased. With renewed courage, the trio made their way to the Great Hall.   


Moving quickly and with the grim purpose of ignoring everyone, Hermione claimed the empty seat on Ginny's left, while Harry took the seat on the Head Girl's other side. Ron swung around the table and sat in front of her, so that the three friends formed a ring of protection around her. In that moment, she felt intensely grateful for friends like the ones she had. Heartened, she began to eat, artfully oblivious to the looks of curiosity which were being sent her way. Lavender and Parvati, in particular, were watching her like hawks intent on their prey. To herself, Hermione conceded that that was _exactly_ what they were doing: watching her to catch a clue as to who the mystery man might be. For that reason, she didn't once raise her eyes to the staff table, although she did glance over at the Slytherin table, and then made certain that her friends caught her searching the Ravenclaw table with her eyes.   


"So, where have you been since class, Hermione?" Lavender -- who sat on Ron's right -- wanted to know, after a few minutes of silence.   


"The library."   


"Should have known that one," Ron teased. "Where else would she be?"   


Hermione pretended to glare, although her eyes were bright with humor. "If some of you spent more time there," she pronounced huffily. "Then, you might have an easier time in class."   


"Like you do?" Dean's infectious smile was a little too broad to be innocent. He sat on Ron's left, with Seamus next to him. Trying to appear inconspicuous, the Irishman was leaning into the conversation.   


"Yes."   


"You mean, like today in Potions?" Dean laughed. "You had it real easy. You didn't have to go around mooning over someone all afternoon! It was so embarrassing."   


"And it'll give me a completely different perspective from the rest of you when I write my essay," she added.   


"Which means we won't have any help on ours," Harry told Ron. "We'll be left to suffer alone. "   


"Hey, we've made it through Divination without her," Ron reminded him. "We can do without her sometimes."   


"Is that right?" she challenged. "Well, I wouldn't consider Divination much of an example, Ron. You and Harry lie on all your assignments! On top of that, it's nothing but a sham, anyway."   


"Hermione!" Lavender chastised. "There's no need to be insulting, just because you don't have the gift for it."   


"Of course, I'm sorry."   


"Besides," Parvati broke in. "It isn't a sham. In fact, what happened today in Potions proves it."   


"How's that?" Harry questioned. "Did Trelawney predict that Hermione was going to be immune to a love potion?"   


"No, of course not," the Indian girl scoffed. "But, in class last week, when we were discussing crystals, she made a reading, remember?"   


"Uh huh," Harry nodded, uncertain as to the relationship between a sleep-worthy Divination lesson and Hermione's predicament. "Lavender asked her who she was reading for and she said--"   


"For someone who cannot read for themselves," Lavender finished. "That must be Hermione. Since she has so little aura and all."   


Hermione couldn't decide whether her comment had been made in earnest or in jest, and narrowed her eyes at the girl. "Your point?"   


"The point is," Parvati continued. "She blindly drew blue lace agate and a ruby for the querant -- represents a young woman with aspirations to perfection, and a tendency to overwork."   


"That _is_ you, 'Mione," Ginny giggled.   


"Then, there was a citrine quartz -- a new venture in life, but with problems. Next to it was a piece of serpentine and gray jasper. It makes perfect sense!"   


"How's that?" Seamus asked, looking as confused as Hermione looked annoyed.   


"Serpentine is authority and age, and usually means an old man is part of it," Lavender began where Parvati stopped. "And gray jasper means that someone older is going to affect the querant in a significant way. That has to be Snape."   


Hermione paled dramatically at her friend's statement, her hands clutching spasmodically into the fabric of her black school robe. The movement caught Harry's attention and he glanced down at her white knuckles, then to her face in concern. "What's Snape got to do with this?" she snapped, recovering quickly as she forced herself to relax against the sudden tension in her spine.   


Lavender rolled her eyes. "What's Snape got to do with it? What do you think? It was in his class that you took the potion _and_ he was the one who told you about it," she explained. "He's got everything to do with you figuring out the problem."   


"Oh," she returned, her muscles suddenly loose from the drain of tension. For a moment, she had thought….  


"But what was her problem?" Ginny interjected. "I don't think that's very clear."   


"The problem of loooove," Parvati giggled, earning another sharp glance from her friend. "It's obvious that Hermione's got herself a secret crush and now she knows the truth about it. He must fancy her, too!"   


"And Professor Trelawney foretold it last week," Lavender added, a hint of smugness in her smile. "I can't wait to tell her next class."   


"Why? I'm sure she already knows," Hermione retorted. With that, she stood up. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I have some assignments to finish." Nodding a terse goodbye to the group and giving Harry a silent dismissal of his concern, she strode out of the Great Hall. _At least_, she sighed to herself. _No one had a chance to ask _who_ it was._  


From the staff table, Remus watched in concern similar to Harry's as one of his favorite students exited the Hall abruptly, without any of her friends at her side. He knew that the information about the _hayam_ potion was going to be making her life difficult; he'd heard several students discussing it in the hallway before dinner and Harry had told him of the excitement in the Gryffindor common room. While Professor Lupin knew her to be strong-willed and independent, he also knew that she had been particularly anxious in the past few weeks, with NEWTs approaching, as well as the lurking anxiety she always carried with her about Harry's welfare. The werewolf also knew that she was concerned for her parents back in the Muggle world where they would be virtually defenseless against Voldemort if he so chose to act. While Hermione had always tried to maintain the façade of strength, she had come to him once in desperate need of a shoulder on which to cry near the end of the sixth year. Remus knew, where even her friends might not, that there was something fragile at the core of all the steel in Hermione's heart.   


"I wonder why she left…?" the DADA professor asked aloud, more to himself than to the hook-nosed man at his side, not expecting a response to his rhetorical question.   


Snape, surprisingly, offered one. "If she finds her company as intolerable as I find mine, I daresay she had good reason."   


Remus grinned wolfishly at his dour colleague. "It's nice to feel the love, Severus."   


Coming from Snape, Hermione would have thought had she not left, there was even something rather elegant about a snort.   
  


***

  
  


"Are you sure you're alright?" Ginny asked worriedly later that night. It was almost curfew and the youngest Weasely was lying on Hermione's bed, watching as her friend moved about the small, circular chamber tidying as she went. The seventh-year student was already dressed in a ankle-length flannel nightgown, her long hair still damp as it fell in a thick, dark tangle down her back. Ginny, on the other hand, still wore her rumpled school uniform and robes.   


Hermione sighed, a stack of books in her hand. "For the last time, I'm fine," she assured her. "I'm just irritated with Lavender and Parvati about their bet. It's rather degrading."   


The redhead sat up, trying to smooth her robe. "Are you sure? I mean, if you've got something on your mind, I'm more than willing to be your sounding board. If you need someone to listen."   


"Thanks, Gin. But it's fine." She placed the books on top of her desk, piling them neatly beside a stack of cream-colored parchment sheets. She quickly straightened the few quills also lying on the desk's surface. "It isn't as if someone has died, or I've failed my NEWTs or something equally as dreadful. It was a silly love potion and I'm immune to it. Nothing more."   


Ginny looked pityingly at her older friend. "It's more than that and we both know it," she remarked. Like Harry earlier that evening, she suddenly seemed anxious. "I…I know it isn't my place to ask but…"   


"You want to know who it is," the girl finished, meeting Ginny's gaze in the reflection of the vanity mirror. She sighed and turned around after retrieving the silver-backed comb which lay on the vanity's smooth surface. When she saw the guilty look on the Ginny's face, she laughed softly. "Come on, Ginny. I'm not going to kill you for asking."   


"You don't actually have to tell me," Ginny rushed to explain as Hermione sat down next to her on the bed, running the comb through her damp hair. "I just want to know…is it….is it…" She hesitated, her eyes almost haunted. Hermione reached out to touch her in reassurance but the redhead brushed away the comforting gesture, making the Head Girl wonder is something had happened which was more serious than her botched potion's aftermath.   


"Out with it, Weasely," she prodded. "You know you can say anything and I won't be angry. Not very, anyway."   


Ginny smiled weakly at the attempt at humor, but her eyes remained somber. "Hermione, I just need to know…it's not Harry, is it?"   


"Why would you ask me that?" she squeaked, the breath she was holding rushing out with the words. "He's yours, for goodness' sake. You don't think that I would go behind your back and--"   


"No, of course not," Ginny interrupted, sadly shaking her head. "It's just that…" She paused, nervously tracing a pattern on the crimson-colored quilt which was thrown across the bed. For some reason, she suddenly couldn't bear to look into Hermione's sharp yet concerned eyes. "You never told me that you had your eye on someone. We're best girl friends and that's the kind of thing you'd share with one. I mean, you told me when you thought that you had an interest in Ron."   


"That lasted only about a month," Hermione reminded her.   


"Exactly!" The girl exclaimed. "That was something passing but you told me. So, I figured you must have had a reason to hide whoever it was from me -- and who would you have to hide from me except Harry? And I thought…well, it's possible, you know. You and Harry, soul-mates or destined or whatever. You've been such close friends for ages…sometimes you even finish each other's sentences. But I know you'd never do anything behind my back, you're not the kind. But if it is Harry, then I won't stop you, I--"   


"Virgina Weasley," she said gently, placing a hand over the girl's nervous wrist to stop its motion. Fighting against the urge to hide her face, Ginny looked up at her friend as she spoke. "If Harry Potter is anyone's soul-mate, it's not mine. Let me assure you on that fact." She breathed a sigh of relief, as Hermione continued. "He's happy with you, Ginny. It's you he loves, no one else. So I wish that you'd stop second-guessing yourself at every turn or flying into jealous tantrums every time some girl looks his way. He _is_ Harry Potter, remember. He's bound to have women throwing themselves at him all the time. But you have to learn to accept that."   


"I know," she sighed, running at agitated hand through her loose hair. "But sometimes it's hard. And that feeling that he's going to throw me over gets stronger the closer you three get to graduation. With him away and me here, I'm not sure it'll last."   


"Do you think that Harry is the type to 'throw you over'?"   


Ginny's frowned softened. "No, he's not," she admitted. "He's not the type at all."   


"Then there you have it." Hermione told her gently.   


She glanced at the other girl. "Thanks, 'Mione. For telling me. And I'm sorry if I…"   


Hermione interrupted her apology. "I didn't tell you anything," she teased, pointing the comb at her. "Remember that. I just reminded you of what you already know."   


"Yes, yes," Ginny smiled, rolling her eyes. "Or what I should know if I wasn't a jealous harpy." The terse mood which had settled over the pair during Ginny's inquiry dissipated in the wake of the light-hearted ribbing.   


"You aren't a harpy," she objected. "You might be insanely jealous, but you're no harpy. Much too young for that. Give it a few years."   


"Ha. Ha. Aren't you the funny one?"   


Hermione grinned, but winced as she dragged the comb through a particularly vicious tangle of hair. "You'd better head off to bed, now. You've got a date tomorrow with the aforementioned boyfriend of yours in Hogsmeade."   


"Yeah, right," Ginny intoned dubiously as she stood. "Not really much of a date with my brother breathing down our necks the whole time. He can be such a prat when he wants to be."   


"I know," she smiled. "That's why I love him." At the horrified look on Ginny's face, she added, "I love him the same way I do Harry."   


Ginny narrowed her eyes in an expression of mock-suspicion. "Good thing I'm not the jealous type," she pretended to huff. "If I were, I'd think you had a rather entertaining sex life. Changing Harry off for Ron every other night."   


"Please!" Hermione protested, laughing. "You'll give me nightmares."   


Ginny laughed as well. "I'm giving myself nightmares!" She opened the door to leave, but paused in the threshold. "I'm not going to ask who it is," she told her. "Because if you want me to know, then you'll tell me."   


She nodded. "That's right. Thank you."   


The redhead shrugged. "No problem. But I am here for you, if you need it." The door closed behind her and Hermione grabbed her wand to activate the wards. Although they were only a little added security, she liked the extra sense of well-being their existence gave her.   


As if on cue, Crookshanks suddenly appeared from behind the bed, his bottle-brush tail in the air as he curled around his mistress's foot which still touched the floor. She glanced down at the large ginger cat and greeted him. "Hey there, Crooks."   


The purring intensified as she trailed a lazy hand over his head and then down behind his pert ears. "Like that, huh?" She scratched at the quilt with her other hand, signaling for the cat to join her on the bed. Without pausing Crookshanks did just that, contentedly rubbing against her as he walked the length of the bed. She grinned as he stepped up on his little paws in order to nudge her nose with his, then slid his cheek against hers. "Trying to mark me as your territory, are you?" she laughed, gathering the cat up like a baby in her arms. While the creature didn't looked pleased with the situation, he didn't protest as his mistress snuggled him close to her face.   


"Today has been crazy," she told him as he purred. She placed him on her lap and he was more than willing to curl up in a ball, contentedly snuggling against her. "I feel as if I've been up for days." Hermione absently stroked the soft orange fur. "I wish you could talk, Crookshanks."   


At the sound of his name, he lifted an ear but otherwise remained still. "I know you're a extraordinary cat and I'd bet that you're the only one who would even remotely understand what I'm going through." She flicked her hand in the direction of door, in indication of the others who slept in Gryffindor Tower. "I can't tell them. I mean, really! 'You want to know who my supposed soul mate is? Snape, that's who. Yes, I've had a strange fixation on him since sixth year.' " She snorted indignantly. "That wouldn't go over very well."   


She gently pushed the cat off from her lap and she moved from her bed to the simple wooden chair which stood in front of her vanity. She continued to work the snarls from her hair with the silver-backed comb, watching in the mirror as she slowly repeated the hypnotic motion.   


Despite the silence, her mind was still working at a fast pace, thoughts flying through her attention so quickly she had little chance to sort through them before they were lost. A fact for which she was grateful at that moment. Hermione didn't want to think any longer, particularly about the whole love potion-soul mate-Snape triangle of insanity from which she was currently suffering.   


At that moment, what she found so alarming about the whole situation was that somehow…everything and nothing had changed over the course of the day. She was, in fact, in no different of a situation with her professor than she had been before she'd taken the potion. Yet, it was so changed because now she _knew_ something she had never expected to learn: that what she felt wasn't simply a passing admiration or strange fascination. It was real, a word which was infinitely important when it was used to describe emotions, an entity which was so ethereal in form. Not only was it real, it was strong and loyal, deep in her heart -- even if her mind was still struggling with the idea.   


_Get a grip, Granger_, she told herself firmly, setting down the comb with a clack. _You just said you didn't want to think about this. So, don't._  


But there was a nagging, unpleasant realization hovering around in her mind, one which caused her a strange ache where her heart sat in her chest. She frowned at her reflection as she soothed her hair back from her face, then split the mass into three sections for plaiting. If it was true -- _And it is true_, that evil little voice in her head reminded her -- then that would mean that she would never care about anyone as deeply as she did…or would…feel for Snape. Which meant…  


That she was going to spend the rest of her life alone.   


A very unpleasant thought, she shivered. And a bleak one, at that. Depressing sentiments aside, the thought had the cold, hard ring of truth to it. And Hermione was, at the core of her being, a rational, intelligent and honest being. She wouldn't deny the total improbability of anything ever progressing between she and Snape -- in the present or in the future. So, whatever it was in him to which her heart had decided -- without her consent, she added to herself -- to be faithful, her heart would have to live without it.   


The 'it' was probably love.   


It wasn't that she thought him unable to love…well, perhaps that was it, after all. Oh, she knew everyone was born with the ability to love someone and that Severus Snape must have loved someone at some point in his life, if only as an infant loves its mother. She was willing to bet, however, that whatever mysterious machinations which had propelled him through time to his current position in the world had not been kind to him and if his downright-evil personality wasn't enough to convince her of that, then the mark which lingered on his left arm was. There was something elementally unpleasant in him, something which did not lend itself to love or fidelity or… emotions which weren't anger, hate or bitterness, in her mind.   


Oh, but was he brilliant, to the point of it being daunting even to someone as academic as herself. Hermione Granger, of all people, knew what it took to become a master in anything magical. Like its medieval origins, to gain the rank of master took years of work, study, ingenuity and determination. In the last wizard census, she remembered, there had only been eight registered Potions masters within the United Kingdom, with Snape being the only one under the age of fifty years.   


Not to mention that he was extraordinary brave, a characteristic highly prized by all Gryffindors, even the rational and level-headed ones. In fact, sometimes Hermione preferred his Slytherin approach to courage over the more haphazard and impulsive ways of true Gryffindors like Harry, Ron and herself. She knew that she could not imagine what he must go through every time he was called to a Death Eater meeting -- only uneasy half-truths about the torture and humiliation that he was forced to endure to prove his allegiance. To return every time, each trip placing his life in danger from both sides of the fight had to be a nerve-wrecking, frustrating way to live. Particularly when neither side seemed very certain about your motivations, in the first place, always questioning and forcing him to prove himself repeatedly. Snape was tested by the Deaths Eaters constantly while he was treated with suspicion and disdain by the fighters on the side of Light. From her point of view, his life seemed to be strange and horrible balancing act, a tight-rope he had walked for fifteen years.   


Sometimes, she thought she could understand how he had become such a twisted and bitter person. And, in her most generous moments, forgive him his actions toward them.   


Almost.   


After tying her plait with a length of scarlet ribbon, Hermione padded across the floor and got into her bed, pulling the quilts up over herself just in time for Crookshanks to bury his large body in the extra bedding at her feet, purring loudly as he stretched before curling up in his usual sleeping position. With one tiny candle flickering on the nightstand, she tried once again to banish her tumultuous thoughts which were drawn to Snape as if he were a magnet attracting iron filings. In this way, he would not leave her -- a problem she had rarely experienced since she had first come to terms with what she felt for him. Once she had given names to those feelings -- admiration for his mind and respect for his work in the war, among others -- they had not plagued her into sleepless nights.   


Tonight would be an exception.   


Her traitorous mind slid back into examining the events in the classroom culminating in the discovery of the damned potion and the reason for her immunity to it. Hermione remembered all too clearly the moment when he had stepped almost-uncomfortably close to her in order to see into her eyes, and how he had lifted her face toward his, his calloused fingers brushing against the sensitive flesh under her chin. The friction between his roughened hands and her baby-smooth skin had sent sparks tingling through her nerve endings, heightened by the strange intimacy and paradoxical formality of the gesture. The fingers had been cool against the heat in her face and it had taken a great deal of will-power to keep herself from leaning into the touch. If her class work had not been in question, she may have given in to that temptation.   


She closed her eyes briefly, reliving those moments: his hand on her skin, his dark eyes intent upon her while his face was so close to hers, close enough for her to feel his breath against her cheek bone….  


With an exasperated groan, she sat up to furiously plump her bed pillows. Those were _not_ the thoughts that she wanted to be having just before trying to sleep. They were already affecting her physically; she was almost breathless and her fingers suddenly starting to prickle with sensation. She knew dismally that those kind of proto-erotic thoughts would mean that the little sleep that she did have would be filled with frustratingly half-remembered dreams which would leave her with vague impressions of movement and touch, sight and sound mingling until it resembled the images played from a blurry, warped VHS cassette tape, ragged and jumbled.   


With a sigh, she blew out the last sputtering candle, prepared to manage through the long night ahead.   


Just before she fell asleep, she promised herself to forget the matter come the morning, leaving the whole love potion-soul mate-Snape triangle of insanity behind her in the light of a new day.   
  
  


*****

  
  
_Author's Notes_: The information on crystal divination was taken from _The Future Now: How to Use All Methods of Prediction from Astrology to Tarot to Discover Your Future_ by Derek Parker & Julia Parker. And _conversos_ were people who were persecuted during the Spanish Inquistion. I think that's it! A big thanks to all the lovely people for have reviewed or emailed or IMed me with comments. They've been a big help in giving me the confidence, courage and motivation to keep on writing. 


	4. Conversations ring in my head

**Heart over mind : Part IV  
Conversations ring in my head   
**

  


***

  
  


From the Muggle dictionary which her parents had bought for her 10th birthday, Hermione knew that the most basic definition of the word 'obssession' was "a compelling motivation."   


As soon as she reached Hogwarts and the magical world, she had reveled in one of the many discoveries she had made those first few months before the encounter with the troll had led to her having friends: magical dictionaries, filled with words she'd never heard and words she _had_ heard but had completely different meanings in the context of the non-Muggle society. In the 1907 edition of the most trusted magical dictionary -- Oxford Crossing's _Dictionary of Magical English_ -- the word 'obsession' had four pages of subtly different meanings ranging from the cursory "compelling motivation" to the mediwizard's psychological definition of the mental disorder, a mental disorder which was rather prevalent among the magical folk who worked as specialty antique dealers.   


Of all the various nuances to the word, Hermione knew that the one she preferred was 8a: a persistent disturbing preoccupation with an often unreasonable idea or feeling.   


It was also the definition which most applied to her current fixated state upon the events which had happened on the previous day. Despite her late-night promise to herself, she had not left the matter behind her and her desire to understand and suppress was causing her to act a bit irrationally and although not quite unpredictably.   


She needed to move on, needed to stop dwelling on the whole horrible mess. Because her _preoccupation_ with it was _disturbing_ and _persistent_. Moreover, it was irrationally centered on an _unreasonable_ and mystifying man.   


The very definition of obsession.   


Rising earlier than any of her friends -- and the whole of Gryffindor Tower -- Hermione arrived to find the Great Hall virtually empty of students, except for a sixth-year Ravenclaw prefect named Anna who was busily working on what appeared to be Arithmancy. Sparing her a quick smile of greeting, Hermione settled at the Gryffindor table and ate quickly, hoping to avoid all the curious breakfast chatter which would inevitably be focused upon her. No doubt that Parvati and Lavender had realized that their defense of their beloved course of study had cost them a chance to interrogate her about exactly who had caused her to be immune to the potion.   


Remembering their little speech about the crystal divination, she reminded herself to research the subjects and the stones later. Not that she placed credence in the art, but the parallels were striking, especially the description of the blue agate and ruby: _a young woman with aspirations to perfection and a tendency to overwork_…  


What a remarkable coincidence, that was.   


Never one to allow herself to waste time, Hermione's pleasantly silent meal was spent not only in eating but in planning, as she laid out a detailed plan for her day. It did not, unlike the large majority of Hogwarts student body above second-year, include the Saturday trip into Hogsmeade. She had entirely different plans ready for her Saturday.   


"Up early, Hermione?"   


She had been so absorbed in her planning that she hadn't heard Professor Lupin approach, nor had she been aware that he had stood there, watching her.   


Despite her surprise, she smiled at him as she answered. "Yes. I have loads of things to get done."   


Remus looked amused. "I never realized that going to Hogsmeade entailed an early morning."   


"Oh, I'm not going," she explained. "I need to stay here and...get some things finished."   


The instructor gave her a concerned pat on the shoulder. "How are you doing these days?"   


For a moment, Hermione almost answered with her usual 'Fine, thanks,' but she knew that Remus wanted the truth and would see through her customary polite lie. "A bit stressed," she admitted honestly. "A little tired. But on the whole, everything is working itself out."   


He nodded and gave her shoulder another pat. "That's all it can do, dear. You know where my office is." With that unspoken offer of support, he continued to the staff table, taking his place at the empty table.   


Hermione shook her head to focus it on her agenda, briefly remembering that she'd received more offers of support from her friends in the last twenty-four hours than she had in the three months before.   


Her plans complete, she was spreading marmalade on her last piece of toast when a blurry-eyed Harry stumbled into the Great Hall, looking as if he'd just rolled out of bed and stepped into the faded jeans and oversized blue sweater he wore. Noticing the odd angle of his round glasses, Hermione thought it a distinct possibility.   


"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, are we, Harry?" she asked teasingly as he dropped into the place beside her, stifling a yawn.   


He glanced over at her but decided it took too much energy to do anything but stretch his limbs. "I figured you'd be taking breakfast early," he explained tiredly. "Wanted to give you some company."   


"Well, thank you," she replied before taking a bite of her toast. "I'm almost finished, though."   


"Are you still going to Hogsmeade?" he wanted to know as he sipped on his pumpkin juice in an attempt to drive the grogginess from his head.   


"No," she returned simply after another bite of toast. She sipped her own juice before saying, "I really need to figure some things out. I'll need the peace and quiet."   


"You'll be in the library, then?"   


She shrugged. "I'm starting there anyway."   


He nodded as she stood up and collected her satchel. "I'll bring you something back from town."   


"As long as it's nothing from Weasely's Wizard Wheezes," she warned.   


"You have my word," he laughed. "See you later, 'Mione."   


With a wave in response, she strode from the Great Hall which was still mostly empty, hurriedly passing her classmates as they headed toward breakfast while she made her way to the library. When she saw Lavender and Parvati, Hermione increased her pace, moving by them so quickly that she was barely a streak of wild brown hair and blue skirt as she rounded the corner.   


The library was empty when she arrived, which was the way she preferred it. Dropping her satchel on the desk under the window which she usually frequented, she delved into stacks and began her research.   


Research, in the wizarding world, was something of a finely-honed skill, especially if a researcher wanted to conduct their search as quickly and as thoroughly as possible. Unlike the Muggle society where the invention of tools such as electronic databases and bar-coded books had helped stream-line the process, Hermione knew that the lack of logic and organization which seemed inherent in many areas of the magical world had spilled into archival work, meaning that research skills had to be diligently learned.   


Hermione, of course, had done so. Another benefit of the half-term she spent as a virtual outcast during her first year at Hogwarts.   


It wasn't very much later that she found herself on a rickety ladder, trying desperately to reach the very top shelf of a bookcase which was more than twice her height. Muttering a little prayer and wishing she hadn't left her wand lying on a shelf a few rungs down, she made a valiant grab for the volume when she heard a whispered "Hermione!"   


Startled while in such a precarious position, Hermione swayed on the top rung, holding on for dear life as she steadied herself. Suddenly furious, she glared down at the owner of the voice to see a very tall, red-headed idiot looking back up at her.   


"Ronald Weasely!" she hissed as she slowly descended the ladder. Obviously doubting its sturdiness, the young man held onto it as she clamored down the rungs. "You almost caused me to fall and break my neck!"   


"Well, what were you doing up there in the first place?" he shot back as she set her feet on solid ground.   


"Trying to get that book up there," she pointed. "What else would I be doing?"   


"Are you really not going to Hogsmeade today?" Ron wanted to know as he scrambled up the ladder.   


"Yes," she answered, frowning. "Now, what are _you_ doing?"   


It was his turn to roll his eyes. "Gettin' your book for you," he said, tossing her abandoned wand down to her. "Is it the little blue or the big leather one?"   


"The little blue one," she called back, watching in envy as Ron's gangly frame allowed him to easily retrieve the book. "Thanks," she told him when he handed the slim volume to her.   


"No problem," he shrugged. He gave her an imploring look. "Please, come with us to Hogsmeade. I'll be lost without you."   


"Well, there's this spell -- I believe you might know it as the _Point Me_ spell--"   


"It's too early for your attitude, Miss," he mock-lectured. "And you know very well that I didn't mean it like that."   


"Then how did you mean it?" she asked over her shoulder as she slid through the rows of high bookshelves, navigating through the labyrinth to her brightly-lit corner.   


"If you don't go, I'll be stuck with Harry and Ginny all day," Ron moaned, following. "Watching them be all lovey-dovey. It's sickening, you understand -- she's my sister!"   


"Then don't stay with them," she suggested. "Go with Seamus and Dean, or even Parvati and Lavender. Make Neville tag along with you if you want."   


" 'Mione," he frowned, half-sitting on the desk as she eased into the chair. "Please?"   


"No," she told him firmly, rifling through her parchments which were strewn across the desk's polished surface. "I want to research this silly potion and I won't be able to do that when everyone's here."   


"Oh." Comprehension dawned on Ron's face as he finally noticed the books and notes she had scattered before her. "_That_ potion."   


"Yes," she said crossly, eyes fixed on the book in her hands. "_That_ potion."   


If she would have looked up, Hermione would have seen that Ron's ears were going pink. "I….well, I was, uh….Hermione, it's like this--"   


"Quickly, Ron," she warned him. "Or you'll be late to the coaches."   


"Who is it?"   


"I'm not telling. But I'll tell you who it isn't -- Harry or Malfoy. Feel better now?"   


"Ew -- Harry?" he asked dubiously. "Why would I think that? And Malfoy…" he shuddered at the thought.   


"You're a smart boy, Ron," she told him approvingly. "Those were my reactions as well."   


"The only thing which could make me sicker than the thought of _Malfoy_ would be if it were someone like….oh, I don't know….George or Fred or Percy…" When Hermione didn't respond, he clear his throat impatiently.   


She looked up from her book. "What?"   


"This is the part where you're supposed to reassure that it's _not_ George or Fred or Percy," he explained, scowling. "Unless it….is?"   


"This is what happens when I compliment you," she sighed. "You go and prove me wrong. Of course it's not one of your bloody brothers! Please!"   


"Now, don't get all upset over nothing, 'Mione," he scolded her. "Just had to ask."   


"Right," she returned in a voice that said she wasn't placated. She glanced out of the window before laying down the book she had and grabbing a parchment covered in her small, neat handwriting. "I suggest you head on, or else you'll be stuck here with me," she informed him. "The carriages are about to leave."   


"Oh, hell!" With that exclamation and a mumbled farewell, Ron dashed out of the empty library, leaving Hermione alone with her notes and books. Finally, she added.   


Quickly skimming through the pile of books she had accumulated, the girl noticed with some annoyance that the one book which would have been truly helpful -- _Love & Loyalty : the legend of the Hayam_ -- seemed to be missing from the stacks. Other than that, the only pertinent information she'd found was in the small blue book which Ron had retrieved from the high shelf. It was a biography of the Princess Nadir'ah.   


Parchment in hand, she enlisted Madam Pince's aid in her search. "I'm looking for this book," she explained, pointing to its name on the slip of parchment. "But I can't seem to locate it on the floor."   


Madam Pince checked the name before turning to her long ledger. "I'm sorry," she said, one finger tapping a entry on the ledger. "That book has been checked out."   


Hermione felt her insides go cold. "By who?"   


"Professor Snape," she answered. "Only yesterday, actually." The librarian gave the girl a sympathetic look. "I suppose if you need it badly, you could ask him for it."   


_I don't think so,_ she thought to herself.   


"Thanks for your help," she said aloud. She held out the biography. "Could I check this out?"   


After packing up her satchel and cursing her luck -- Snape, of all people! -- she abandoned the library, hoping to find a comfortable spot where she could settle down to read the account of the Princess Nadir'ah.   
  
  


*****

  
  


While proving to be an interesting read, Princess Nadir'ah's biography yielded few details about the potion. The book did have an intensive chapter on the events preceding and following the occasion on which the royal witch was forced to take the _hayam_ and Hermione felt that it in itself would have made a lovely love story, but there was none of the information she'd wanted woven within the tale.   


Sighing, she laid the slim book down on the stone bench beside her, allowing her eyes to sweep across the green lawn of the enclosed courtyard, the bright colors of early spring flowers dotting the otherwise monochromatic expanse. The stone fountain, which was shut off during the colder months, was bubbling merrily, the sunlight dancing on the clear water and reflecting on the diamond-shaped panes of the castle's Gothic windows. As she had when she was a child, Hermione let her bare feet -- her sandals had been slipped off when she'd come outdoors -- dangle, swinging slightly as she enjoyed the warm morning, the slight breeze gusting as it whipped through the narrow causeways of the castle's architecture.   


"A beautiful day, is it not?" the Headmaster's kindly voice sounded from behind her. She turned to see Professor Dumbledore strolling across the lawn toward her, his robes the same cerulean shade of the clear sky.   


"Yes, it is," she returned, taking a moment to remember the question. She felt herself returning his cheerful smile.   


"I would have expected you'd be in Hogsmeade with everyone else," he said conversationally.   


She shrugged, picking up her book so that Dumbledore could sit next to her on the long stone bench. "I had some extra research to finish."   


"Ah, yes, I see." His blue eyes twinkled behind the half-moon spectacles as he noticed the small book she held. "Tell me, Miss Granger, did you find the Princess Nadir'ah to be as fascinating as I? Or were you simply interested in her entanglements with the _hayam_ potion?"   


"She _is_ very interesting," she answered, an look of amused resignation on her face. "But, I was mainly interested in the story of her experiences with the _hayam_."   


Dumbledore's cheerful expression became pensive as he regarded her. "I would imagine that you would, after your own reaction to it."   


Hermione raised an eyebrow at the headmaster. "I believe you do know everything, Professor."   


His own smile widened. "Alas, my dear. I can't claim any kind of special abilities because of that piece of information. I heard the story from Professor McGonagall, who heard it from Professor Lupin who…"   


"Who Harry told after class," she finished for him. "My, my. It seems bad news travels fast."   


The old wizard patted her hand in a comforting, grandfatherly gesture. "You shouldn't see it that way, Miss Granger. You've been given a rather special gift, although you might not understand that."   


"You're correct -- I don't understand it at all," she admitted, sighing. The breeze plucked at her hair, the wild strands swirling around her face. "I'm not even in love with someone, let alone having found my soul-mate…" When she noticed the headmaster's pointed gaze, she added softly. "I do care about someone, but that's not the same as love."   


"I see. What do you know about the _hayam_, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore inquired.   


She glanced down at the biography as she answered. "Only what I've read in _Iskiraat al-kimiya_ and in the book on Princess Nadir'ah. That one is only immune to its effects if her heart is too powerfully loyal to whomever she loves…that she's in love with her soul mate."   


"Soul mate," Dumbledore mused. "That's a very misleading term, you know. Fouad al-Mudarris was always overly dramatic in his prose. Nicholas warned me to read his texts with caution because of his tendency for exaggeration and poor diction. He once told me -- when I was grappling with one of al-Mudarris's more challenging works -- that if I thought his alchemical theories were far-fetched, I should have had to listen to the stories he'd tell at meals. "   


It took Hermione a moment to remember that Fouad al-Mudarris was the original 14th century author of _Iskiraat al-kimiya_. "Mr. Flamel actually knew him?"   


The old professor nodded. "Yes; Nicholas spent a good deal of time in Baghdad and Cordoba in his youth. He also knew the Princess Nadir'ah -- said that she had a brilliant mind for arithmancy. Very logical. She was considered a child prodigy."   


"Really?" She made a mental note to read a bit more into the life of the Damascene princess.   


Dumbledore nodded absently, stroking his long white beard. "Yes, soul mate is a very misleading term. Fouad ought to have watched himself."   


The girl shifted to face the headmaster, reflexively tucking her legs under her. "What do you mean, 'misleading'?"   


"You were right about the heart being faithful," he told her. "The _hayam_'s power is useless when the love is too strong to be broken under its effects. Much like when a person's will is too strong to be bent by the Imperius."   


"Like Harry," she interjected.   


"Yes, like Harry," he agreed. "But 'soul mate'... that term has had its meaning twisted -- it has come to mean something which is beyond one's control, as if it were predestined. I've never thought that to be true." He smiled at her. "I've always liked to think that people make their own way in life, their own destiny."   


"Obviously, you don't follow the same school of thought as the Centaurs," she returned.   


"Obviously," he chuckled.   


Hermione furrowed her brow and gave him a quizzical look. "Well, then, if al-Mudarris didn't mean a soul-mate in the literal sense, what _did_ he mean?"   


"Something like this is difficult to explain clearly, but I will try my best. There's a moment, Miss Granger, when a person's heart -- or, soul -- recognizes its kindred in someone else. Someone innately suited to them in a way few others are. This happens to everyone, Muggle and magical…but the magic possessed by we wizards and witches give us better insight into the subconscious machinations of our own psyche. This makes us far more likely to realize it and act accordingly. I'm sure that you'd find a much lower rate of marriage dissolutions in the wizarding world in relation to the Muggle world."   


She nodded as if support his claim. "It's significantly lower. I remember from when we studied marriage patterns in my 3rd-year Muggle Studies class."   


"Well, that is what al-Mudarris actually meant by 'soul-mate.' I'm sure it was translated as some nonsense about destiny."   


"Destined partner," she admitted. Her eyes swept the courtyard as she gathered her thoughts. "But, Professor, I still don't understand. If it's not a predestined mate, then why was I affected? I truly -- _truly_ -- know that I'm not in love with someone in such a way."   


"Well," he said lightly. "Your heart seems to think otherwise."   


At that, Hermione grimaced. "Well, I know better," she grumbled.   


The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes brightened as he gazed at her thoughtfully. "Do you know that the Chinese don't have separate words for 'heart' and 'mind?' To them, it's one whole entity; the seat of both emotions and thought is the same. What they call the heart is really the 'heart-mind.' " From somewhere in his robes, he produced a small round canister which he opened, offering, "A _citron_? They're rather good." At her declination, he continued speaking. "Unlike the Chinese, we English have always perceived the heart and mind as two completely separate and often contradictory organs."   


"Professor, I…"   


"The heart understands things that the mind doesn't even realizes exist," he told her philosophically. "I think that that is the root of your problem. Your mind won't accept what your heart knows. But one day, the heart will win out and you'll know. Oh, how very deeply you'll understand it all. How rare and wondrous gift it is, to love so strongly."   


Silence ensued as Dumbledore gave her an another comforting pat, Hermione sighing as she watched two skylarks flit across the courtyard, short trills of song cutting through the stillness of the humans. With the wizard's words, the girl realized that even if Snape wasn't her true and ordained soul-mate, that the scenario painted by the headmaster wasn't any more comforting. How was it a rare and wondrous gift if her silly heart had given itself away to someone who could never return her feelings? It was much more like a curse, she'd wager.   


As the profound weight of everything fell upon her shoulders, she felt the desperate need to talk to someone about it all, to really communicate what she felt inside. As if in answer, she suddenly remembered Harry's words about Dumbledore: _I feel as if I can tell him anything,_ her friend had said once. _And he'll never laugh or make fun. He just listens._  


That was precisely what Hermione wanted at that moment.   


"This whole business is very depressing," she announced sullenly.   


"How so?" the headmaster asked kindly.   


Her answer was soft and almost broken. "The person that I care for…he doesn't -- nor will he ever -- return my feelings. I'll end up all alone."   


"You can't know that for certain," he told her. "Nothing is impossible, especially not in a world full of magic."   


"I know," she argued. "I'm not blind, Professor."   


He laid a age-worn hand on her shoulder, causing her to look up at him questioningly. "Haven't I already explained that it's not what you know but what you feel which is ultimately important in these matters?" The twinkle was abruptly gone and his ebullient face was calmly serious in way which Hermione had never seen. "Don't give up on it, Hermione. There is no greater tragedy on earth than that. And certainly don't give up on him. Not when he needs you more than he'll ever know."   


She didn't ask or question that Dumbledore knew who 'he' was. It was in his nature, after all, to know the deepest corners of young peoples' hearts even when they didn't. "Professor, really I don't think he needs me at all," she told him bluntly. "He tries to make it clear that he doesn't need anyone. Or, more importantly, do I think he wants me."   


"Severus had never known what was good for him," the old man revealed. "And he only gets more stubborn with age, I'm afraid."   


"Exactly." She wrung her hands in an uncharacteristic show of anxiety.   


"That doesn't change the fact that he needs you, my girl," Dumbledore emphasized. "You love him so much that you're protected from the strongest love potion known to existence. You love him in the face of the way he treats you and your friends. There's a bond there that can't be broken. And it may well be what saves him in all this."   


Her eyes had gone wide, all the blood rushing from her face to leave her skin ashen. "You don't expect me to tell him, do you?"   


"Love does not need to be spoken to be felt," he told her soothingly. "It's powerful and ancient magic on its own, without words or charms."   


"Then what are you suggesting that I do?" she questioned. "How am I to accomplish what you think I can?"   


His somber face softened and the twinkle returned to his eyes. The tension surrounding them loosened, once again allowing Hermione to breathe. "I simply ask that you don't deny your heart. I don't mean to tell you to cloister yourself and pine away or allow it to change whatever plans you have. Live with it as you would any other part of yourself. It'll take care of itself in the end."   


"Easy enough for you to say," she retorted softly, the wind still playing with her loose hair.   


Her comment won a hearty laugh from Dumbledore. "Yes, it is," he agreed. "But it's still good advice, Miss Granger. The feelings are in your heart to stay. You might as well accept them."   


Hermione thought about that for a moment; it seemed simple enough. And wasn't that what she had done beforehand? Only then she had used a term less frightening than love, but still she had succeeded. And until the day her heart made her mind understand, she could go on as she always had.   


She smiled, a steely determination flinting in her eyes. "I think I can do that."   
  
  


*****

  
  


After Dumbledore took his leave of her, Hermione felt the peculiar hum of tension which had settled in her muscles ease its hold, allowing her to completely relax for the first time since Potions class the day before. As always, the headmaster's words had brought a clarity to the situation which all her research and epiphanies had not. She would, as he suggested, simply deal with it.   


In the wake of sudden relaxation, she slid off the stone bench to sit on the soft cool grass, with her back against the stone on which she had once sat. She stretched her legs out in front of her, her head gently tilted back against the bench and eyes closed as she enjoyed the warm sunlight on her face. Her current position was a juvenile one, mimicking the way she had sat in her own home's small garden dozens of times in the summer, allowing the quiet peace to seep into her overburdened muscles, right down into her bones. Despite years spent in the magical world, Hermione still thought of stress in the Muggle ways; therefore, she only thought of Muggle ways to relieve it. Much like when she'd panicked in her first year when faced with needing fire to fend off the Devil's Snare, the thought to use magical means to combat her tendency toward unhealthy stress levels had never entered her mind.   


Of course, in peaceful moments like the one in the courtyard, the Muggle idea of quiet and rest seemed like such a brilliant insight. She kept her eyes closed and basked in the sun, ignoring the way her hair was fanned and tangled by the wind, or the slight wetness which the crushed grass left on her skirt and bare legs. Hermione curled her toes in the cool stems, a drowsy and pleasant feeling of laziness washing over her as she allowed both her body and mind to rest. Her mind, she realized slowly, had so few chances to do so.   


If the young woman hadn't been lulled into a state of half-sleep by the warm air and woodsy smells of the plants surrounding her, she would have noticed that there was someone watching her from the large archway which opened one of the castle's many hallways into the enclosed courtyard. The figure was dark, even in the face of the brightness of the late morning and frozen on the threshold by the sight of her. As if he had become part of the architecture, Severus Snape could only stand in utter stillness as a strange sense of panic gripped him.   


Never, in the almost seven years she had attended Hogwarts, had her professor seen her in such a state of relaxation, completely open and unguarded as she sat half-asleep in the grass. It was something -- those moments in time when someone's defenses were so lowered that they seemed unexistent -- which was rare to encounter; to someone as deeply private as Snape, it seemed as if he had stumbled upon something very personal and he instantly felt as if he were intruding. Judging from his own experience at being interrupted at such moments, he doubted that anyone, particularly someone as disliked as him, would be welcomed. On the other hand, however, he has never very welcomed by his pupils and Dumbledore had asked him to bring the wine-colored volume tucked under his arm to the inquisitive girl, which meant that it was a deed he would have to perform.   


As he glided across the lawn, his blacks robes even more severe against the light and color of the morning, he registered belatedly that his student looked…different. Without the books slung over her back, or a quill in hand, or without words tumbling from her mouth at an alarming rate, she looked changed from the Miss Granger he had seen everyday in his classes for so long. While he couldn't quite place what differed in her countenance, he still recognized it.   


Since he moved with a natural stealth, no sound had alerted her of his presence. He stood only a few feet from where she sat on the ground, watching her for a moment. Snape gave a passing thought to the wild mane she called hair and wondered briefly why she didn't cut it. At a shorter length, it would have been much easier to manage as well as having the added advantage of actually looking as if she'd brushed it.   


"I think it's a bit too early in the season for sun-bathing, Miss Granger. " His rich voice cracked sharply through the blissful silence, shocking the girl out of her half-slumber.   


As soon as his voice reached her ears, the change in her posture was instantaneous. She sat up quickly, her muscles tensing with the effort, recoiling and tightening as she scrambled to her feet. Startled, Hermione focused her eyes on him, keeping her gaze steady even as she knew that most of the color had drained from her face. "I was reading," she returned a bit defensively.   


He swept his dark eyes from the unopened book on the bench back to the student. "Of course. Most people read with their eyes closed."   


Yes, it was moments like this which made Hermione want nothing more than to strike that arrogant, sneering face. Fighting the urge, she busied her hands, brushing away the errant slivers of grass which had settled on the folds of her skirt. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked pointedly, noticing that Snape had done nothing after his last scathing comment except silently watch her.   


"I was simply waiting until you had finished," he explained sardonically, his eyes lingering on her hair which was horribly wind-tousled. "Judging from your usual appearance, it shouldn't take too long."   


Hermione let her hands fall still at her sides. "Yes, Professor?"   


Unceremoniously, he offered her a leather-bound book, its wine color an odd spot of color against his flowing, black robes. "Professor Dumbledore asked me to give you this." He emphasized the headmaster's name as if to make it clear that he was only present under duress.   


"Oh, did he?" she muttered without thinking, an eyebrow arched in mild suspicion as she accepted the book. It wasn't that she was suspicious of Snape but she _was_ highly suspicious of Dumbledore, particularly after their last conversation.   


"Yes, he did," he sneered, stepping away from her. "He seemed to think it dire that you have this volume. Otherwise, I wouldn't have fancied myself an errand boy for a student too lazy to collect her own books." Having finished his task, he turned in a sweep of black cloth. "Good day, Miss Granger."   


Watching his retreating form, Hermione didn't bother to answer but instead examined the faded gilt lettering on the book's spine. As she suspected, it was _Love & Loyalty : the legend of the Hayam_, the very book she'd asked about that morning. A book which he had had in his possession, making it quite impossible for her to collect herself. Lazy, indeed!   


With a self-deprecating grin, she realized that if the dour professor continued to behave as he usually did, she'd have little trouble ignoring whatever sentimental tug she held in her heart. Heartened by that knowledge, she grabbed her books and her shoes, preparing to spend the remainder of the quiet afternoon finishing up her assignments now that she found her thoughts to be clear and focused.   


The courtyard was left sun-warmed and silent in her absence.   
  
  


*****

  
  


Snape had almost reached the entrance to the dungeons when he heard a pleasant voice call out to him. "I take it you found Miss Granger in the courtyard, Severus?"   


He stopped and turned to see Dumbledore moving toward him in his usual gliding gait which defied his great age. "Yes, I delivered the book, as you asked."   


"I'm sure she was pleased to see you. With the book," the older wizard stated.   


"She was not. Although she should have been; it's not as if it's my place to fetch and carry books for students who would rather lay about than get them themselves."   


"How could she have gotten it?" Albus asked mildly. "I seem to remember that you had the book in _your_ possession." Despite the instructor's glare, he continued. "That reminds me…I meant to ask you earlier why you had that book in the first place?"   


Something in Dumbledore's tone caused Snape to bristle. "Because my students were currently studying the _hayam_, of course."   


Even in the dim light of the hallway, the twinkle in the old man's eyes was unmistakable. "But, if Madam Pince is correct, you didn't get the book until yesterday, after your last class…after Miss Granger's unexpected incident with it."   


"Headmaster…"   


"I simply assumed that you were showing a special interest in Miss Granger--"   


"Why on earth would I show interest in any of my students outside Slytherin? Particularly that one?" Snape interrupted waspishly.   


The old man held up his hands in acquiescence. "It is merely that many instructors have been known to develop interests in their students' welfares. Usually in the least troublesome and the most troublesome."   


"If that were true -- which it is not -- then, Miss Granger would certainly be a candidate for such attention. She is, with the exception of Potter, the most troublesome creature to ever set foot in my classroom."   


Dumbledore chuckled softly. "I doubt she is as bad as all that."   


The Potions professor merely raised an eyebrow as he excused himself. The headmaster, unable to contain the smile which twitched beneath his beard, watched the younger man disappear into the depths of the dungeons. "Oh, Severus," he said quietly to himself. "How wrong you are. I daresay that she will cause you far more trouble than Harry ever dreamed. The more better she."   


With that pleasant thought, Dumbledore left the drafty hall in search for a warm cup of tea in his office.   
  


*****

  
  


_Author's Notes_: Oh, how proud my Education professor would be if she knew how much of her sage wisdom I've been able to use in this story so far. And these chapters seem to have the annoying habit of getting longer each time! A thanks goes to the Merriam-Webster Online dictionary for the meanings of obssession. The Chinese really do use the same word -- well, character -- for heart & mind. If you'd liked to see it, go here (). For all you Arabic speakers, I hope you caught the joke with the name, Fouad al-Mudarris. If not, I'll explain: "Fouad" means "Heart" while "al-Mudarris" means "the teacher." Basically, 'heart is the teacher.' Thank you to all reviewers and persons who have emailed. To everyone who had lovely comments about my grammar and correct usage of the English language, you should really thank my 11th grade English teacher, Strunk and White's _The Elements of Style_ and my Webster's Pocket Dictionary. That all said, please review if you'd like because it makes me very happy! 


	5. Living through each empty night

**Heart over mind : Part V  
Living through each empty night   
**

  


***

  


True to the promise she had made to herself, Hermione firmly pushed her problems with Snape to the furthest corner of her mind and focused on more immediate issues: Animagus training, NEWTS, and university applications.   


The Animagus training was frustrating her immensely because Professor McGonagall had chosen a pace for the lessons which struck the girl as agonizingly slow. When she'd complained about it, the instructor had explained that since the training was technically a university-level endeavor, Hermione was fortunate she was being given the chance at all. Still frustrated but properly chastised, she remained silent and continued on at the snail's pace designated by her strict professor.   


Luckily, Hermione had found the application process for magical university admissions to be similar to that in the Muggle World, and her mother had been more than willing to help her daughter wade through the letters of introduction from the half-dozen universities which were interested in her as a potential student. The most difficult step in that process she'd quickly learned was that she was expected to declare her area of concentration on the admissions parchment. After hours of soul-searching and philosophizing, countless discussions with her professors -- with the notable exception of Snape -- she had arrived at a surprisingly satisfying choice: mediwizardry.   


Once she had decided upon it, she'd realized just how right the discipline was for her. To be a successful mediwitch, she would to have a strong background in all of the subjects and it was a course of study worthy of the time in which she lived. Like a distant rumbling storm cloud, Voldemort's existence loomed over the horizon, coloring everything darker and more ominous, especially for the friends of the Boy Who Lived. Following the decision to study wizard medicine, Hermione had narrowed her choice of higher-education institutions to three schools, the most prestigious of the group being the Trinity University of Mediwizardry, located in Ireland. Seamus Finnigan, of course, vocally approved her choice of that particular establishment, promising to buy her a shamrock-decorated muffler if she was accepted. She planned on holding him to that pledge.   


Time not spent in class or in those activities were spent in studying for NEWTs. Most nights and weekends were clogged with revision, the reviewing of notes, new texts and old essays. Despite all the teasing she had received from her classmates about her over-zealous study habits, more and more students had begun to follow her example and spent free nights in study, either in the library or in their common rooms. It gave the Head Girl another reason to be thankful for her own room since her favorites spots were currently being cluttered by less-than-earnest studiers.   


Studying, Hermione mused, was where she wanted to be at that moment. Where she _did not_ want to be was creeping through the darkened dungeon halls in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, it was exactly where she was.   


"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," she called softly, rolling the word 'kitty' over her tongue until it sounded less like a word and more while a strange chant. "Where are you, Crooks?"   


When she found her squash-face feline, Hermione decided, she was going to kill him. _Well, maybe not kill him, but lock him up in my trunk so that he can't pull this stunt again._   


Although she knew Crookshanks to be extraordinarily intelligent as well as cunning enough to take care of himself when he habitually roamed the large castle, he was still only a cat -- a large one, but still just a domestic animal. And in her sixth year, there had been a rather unfortunate incident when her familiar had been stalking through the dungeons only to be cornered by a group of nasty little Slytherins, second- and third-years. The poor cat had taken a few nasty blows to his sides and his fur had been singed by what his mistress assumed was a spell not unlike her own bright blue fire. Of course, his attackers had left the fray with more than a few scratches and bites for their trouble but it still had left Hermione shaken, wondering about what could have happened.   


After that harrowing experience, her cat had had the intelligence to stay out of the dungeons, where the most unfriendly beings in the castle seemed to congregate. Or, at least, she thought he had stayed away until the Ravenclaw prefect, Anna, came to tell her otherwise.   


"Don't you have a large orange cat? With a sort of --" Anna had pressed her flat palm against her nose in a visual depiction of Crookshanks's squashed face. When Hermione had nodded, she had continued. "Well, I think I saw him in the dungeons when I was on my rounds."   


While she admitted to having few maternal instincts, the Gryffindor harbor a strange motherly urge to protect her feline companion -- which was why she found herself roaming the dank corridors long after curfew, searching for the troublesome animal. She kept remembering the outcome of his last sojourn into the dungeons and she shivered involuntarily.   


"Crookshanks, you stupid, troublesome idiot, where are you?" she called in a sing-song voice, her gentle tone at odds with the words she uttered. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."   


Around another corner she went, the only sound echoing from the empty halls were the muffled scuff of her black shoes against the stone floor. "Crookshanks?" she crooned again.   


This time, her softly-spoken inquiry was answered by a long mewing sound -- a feline meow.   


She spun around to look behind her, then back ahead, desperately hoping to see a blur of orange fur. When she didn't, she called again, a bit louder. "Crookshanks?"   


Another answering meow -- a long plaintive cry which she knew usually meant that her familiar was either hurt or in trouble. All thoughts of punishment fled from her mind and she cried out, "Crookshanks, where are you?"   


From the third answering sound, Hermione discerned its owner's location: the corridor which bisected her current path farther down the long stretch of stone wall. Frantic and worried, she rushed toward the cat who had meowed once again, hurtling around the corner at a break-neck pace. The sight which met her eyes was of her bandy-legged cat sitting in the middle of the stone floor, looking relatively unharmed and as if he'd been waiting on her. She moved to scoop him up in her arms, relief making her voice shaky. "You great git," she told him fondly. "You had me worried sick."   


Before she could grab him, however, he danced away, moving farther down into the shadows of the hall. Hermione was about to chastise him when he looked back at her, something urgent and sad in his great yellow eyes. She knelt and looked unflinchingly into those shining irises. "Something wrong?"   


He purred loudly and brushed his whiskered face against her hand as if rewarding her for comprehension. He turned in a circle so that his bottle-brush tail flicked across her face before padding silently down the hall. Sighing, she stood. "Fine, then. I'll follow you."   


Crookshanks led her down another winding hallway, one even more shadowy than the previous. The air seemed cooler and damper as well, causing the student to shiver and pull her black robes closer around her while inwardly cursing the dress code which mandated skirts for female students. Her woolen, knee-high socks made for little warmth in the face of the combined coolness of the night and the dungeons.   


At long last, the cat disappeared into a small antechamber at the end of the hallway, and Hermione peered into the rounded room warily, immediately noticing a huge arched door, ornately carved out of what appeared to be green serpentine. The mottled stone was cut so that it curved and coiled into a stylistic impression of a large serpent interspersed with a winding ivy vine, haphazardly dotted with leaves. The girl had not yet stepped into the small space when another whining meow from her familiar called her attention to the shadowy heap of blackness which was crumpled on the cold stones of the floor. Crookshanks sat at its side, his yellow eyes looking sadly from the shape to his mistress.   


Once she took a step closer to the unmoving outline, her breath hitched in her throat as -- despite the darkness of the unlit antechamber -- her eyes caught more details: a line of pale but sallow flesh visible against the dark cloth of a robe; the contrast of textures between the rough woolen cloak and shiny dark hair.   


The hitch in her breath was released from her chest as a sharp gasp as she sank to her knees at his side. "Professor Snape?" she called softly, gently shaking him by the shoulder. "Professor?"   


When that action elicited no response, any trepidation she might have harbored at his reaction to her ministrations vanished. She hauled him up into her lap, resting his head on her knees as she checked his breathing. He was, of course, unconscious and his breath seemed shallow, like each intake of air caused him pain. She could feel his thin body shaking every so slightly where it came in contact with hers, and the hand she gently touched to his forehead registered that he was as cold as death.   


Hermione cradled Snape in her arms, carefully shifting him into a stable position so that she could reach into her robes for her wand. When she pulled one hand from beneath his head, she let out a startled shriek when she realized that it was covered in blood. His blood.   


The ache in her heart at the realization was so strong that it caused her to shudder, but she bravely reached for her wand, never pausing even as she was aware of the blood which was seeping from some unseen injury, staining her robes where he lay against her.   


All the while, Crookshanks watched with sad yellow eyes as his mistress desperately tried to help the injured man, his feline features somehow mirroring the tortured expression on Hermione's face. His ears twitched in response when he heard her pained voice whisper in the darkness.   


"Oh, God. Please don't die."   
  
  


*****

  
  


Professor Dumbledore swept into the hospital wing with his elderly face creased with worry, looking very unlike his usual self. From the frantic Floo message he had received from Madam Pomfrey only moments before, he was not surprised to see the nurse looking as worried as he felt. When she noticed him, she tiptoed away from her only patient who was lying on the hospital bed farthest from the door, half-hidden by a screen.   


"How is he, Poppy?" the headmaster questioned quietly, stealing a glance over the mediwitch's shoulder toward the unmoving figure on the bed.   


"He'll live, although he may feel as if he wished otherwise." she told him bluntly. "The…usual…damage aside, he took a nasty crack on the head in the dungeons which knocked him out good and cold." She waved toward another cot on the opposite side of the injured instructor's. "If she hadn't found him, he would have probably not lasted the night."   


While Dumbledore had expected Madam Pomfrey and her concerns, he had not expected to find himself faced with the pale, haggard Hermione Granger who sat on the edge of an unused bed, slightly hunched with her arms crossed tightly over her stomach as if to protect herself.   


Nodding to Poppy, he approached the young woman. "Miss Granger," he said softly. At the sound of his voice, she looked up at him with haunted eyes, the brown irises appearing almost black against her ashen skin.   


"Professor Dumbledore," she nodded absently in greeting.   


"What are you doing here?" His question was curious but not unkind.   


Taking a deep breath, she explained stiltedly how she had come to follow Crookshanks into the dungeons and how she had found Snape. While she talked, the old man noticed that her hands were covered in dried blood, rust-colored streaks of the same staining her white shirt. There was even a smudge of blood high on her right cheek as if she had inadvertently wiped it there as she pushed her unruly hair away from her face. "…and that was when I realized that he was bleeding," she was saying. "I cast a few superficial healing spells and then…I got him here as quickly as I could."   


The headmaster granted the tired student a restrained smile. "Thank you, my child. Poppy tells me that if it had not been for you, Professor Snape would be in much worse condition."   


If possible, her eyes became even more troubled. "How…how is he, Professor?" She knew better to ask what was wrong with him; she'd noticed the shaking in his limbs, a clear sign of Cruciatus. It was quite simple for someone as intelligent as she to realize that his injuries were an outward sign of the dangerous life he lead as Dumbledore's spy.   


"He'll live," he told her, echoing the mediwitch's words. "But he'll be a bit worse for the wear, at least for a few days."   


She nodded in gratitude, arms still wrapped around her middle. Noticing her obvious fatigue from what he knew had to have been an emotionally draining experience, he gently but firmly took hold of one of her hands and pulled her to feet. Dazedly, Hermione was reminded of Harry's actions in the library over a month before, when he had pulled her from her research about the _hayam_.   


Dumbledore motioned toward the entrance. "You look as if you need some rest. I think it's time for you to head back to your rooms, hmm?"   


As if underwater, her reactions were sluggish. She nodded slowly, taking a few hesitant steps toward the exit. She stopped, however, glancing back at the wizard with a plea in her eyes. Although she wasn't certain how to express it, the last thing Hermione wanted to do was to return to her room.   


Somehow interpreting the emotions in her eyes, Dumbledore's face became a study in compassion and gentle understanding. "Do you wish to stay here tonight?"   


"If…if it's alright."   


"I think it will be fine," he assured her. "The last time I checked, I was somewhat important around this castle. I'm sure that I can arrange something." His teasing words drew a wan smile from the young woman. Patting her on the shoulder, he pointed her to the small lavatory. "Go on in there and clean yourself up whilst I have a chat with Madam Pomfrey."   


More by instinct than by design, Hermione stepped into the lavatory and used a combination of warm, soapy water and advanced cleaning spells to remove all the blood from her skin and clothes. She ignored her disheveled hair and only ran a quick hand over her now-spotless robe to smooth away the wrinkles. After she'd splashed some cold water in her face, she stepped back into the infirmary to find Dumbledore waiting for her.   


"Poppy has agreed to let you stay the night," he revealed. "I told her that it was a personal favor to me. I also said that I thought Severus could stand to see a friendly friend when he awakens."   


Within a few moments, Hermione was seated in a large chair with high arms and a back padded in soft but tacky mustard-colored cloth, placed at the left side of Snape's bed and facing away from the infirmary's entranceway. Curling up comfortably in the roomy chair, she watched him sleep in the dim sputtering light of the empty hospital wing. After Madam Pomfrey spoke a few hushed words with the headmaster, he bid goodnight, but not before thanking the girl for taking over the bedside vigil. Pomfrey watched the student sympathetically before she disappeared, only to reappear bearing a large sturdy mug of chamomile tea, sweetened with honey.   


Hermione sipped her hot tea in silence as the mediwitch gave the patient one more check-over, looking down at him in much the same way which the Gryffindor had watched her cat, the same mixture of maternal protectiveness and disapproval on her face. Clucking her tongue and occasionally murmuring to herself, Pomfrey smoothed the white linens decisively as she straightened.   


"He shouldn't wake until late morning," she addressed the impromptu nursemaid. "So, you should have an easy night of it. But if he does, give him this." She set a blue cork-topped bottle on the table next to the bed. "Just consider it a head-start on your training for university." With a nod, the elder witch placed the screen between Hermione and the empty bed on her other side, effectively blocking view of the girl and Snape from passersby.   


Once alone, Hermione placed her cup on the low table at bedside before resting her folded arms on her knees and leaning her head against them. For she and her two best friends, hospital vigils had become all too common in their years at Hogwarts. Hermione had spent many a night in her past frantically pacing in her room when they wouldn't allow her and Ron to wait in the hospital wing for news of Harry. And on more than a few occasions, she had seen Harry emerge from some entanglement hurt and bleeding, a sight which would cause her chest to tighten painfully while she momentarily lost the will to breathe. Tonight, when she had seen Snape huddled on the floor, she'd felt something very close to that; it was different, though, on some level. Just as intense and painful, it still _felt_ differently. And, in some deep and unexplainable way, it had hurt more acutely.   


Her eyes lingered on the sole occupant of the infirmary, observing how quiescence relaxed the tightness of his features and softened the harsh angles of his face. Despite the unnatural pallor from the blood-loss, he looked more peaceful and more _human_ in that moment than she had ever seen him. She almost gave over to the impulse to touch him; she was only a breath away from laying her fingertips on the curve of his cheek but she drew her hand back at the very last moment, thinking better of it. Instead, she continued to watch him in the faint flickering light, fascinated by the play of the exaggerated shadows cast by the torches as they danced across the planes of his face.   


Finally giving over to the lateness of the hour, her own fatigue and the light sedating effect of the chamomile tea, she rested her head on the cradle of her arms and drifted off to sleep.   
  
  


*****

  
  


In the bright early light of morning, Severus Snape awoke with an excruciating headache and a overwhelming desire to kill Lucius Malfoy. Although neither were isolated occurrences, the headache was worse than the last two dozen from which he'd suffered, and it only aggravated the urge to kill the other wizard.   


_That man is a bane on existence, mine particularly._  


As if it weren't enough that Voldemort felt the need to inflict physical torture on his wayward follower on a regular basis, he was sadistic enough to curse Snape with the mental excruciation that was having to associate with the elder Malfoy. Sometimes Snape felt as if he'd gladly field a few more Cruciatus curses if only to be rid of his arrogant, pale and pointed face.   


Through the haze of discomfort and sleep, Snape slowly became aware of his surroundings -- which he immediately discovered weren't his chambers. As soon as he opened his eyes, he knew where he was, having stared up at that cold stone ceiling far too many times not to recognize it was that of hospital wing. Stifling a groan as he used his aching muscles, he pulled himself into sitting position, resting his back against the headboard of the narrow bed while he wondered how he came to be there. The movement made his head pound even more strongly, causing him to blindly grope for the pain-relief potion which he knew Pomfrey would have left for him, his eyes closed against the wave of nausea-tinged throbbing. When his searching hand came up empty, he forced his eyes open and glanced over toward the table.   


That was when he noticed the empty tea cup.   


And the sleeping young woman to whom it belonged.   


Stunned as he was to see one of his students at his bedside, Snape first grabbed the small bottle and downed in one gulp. The licorice taste of the draught still lingered on his tongue a heartbeat later when the potion's magic began to dull the ache in his head and muscles, clearing the mist from his mind. Thankful that his headache had faded to a faint tenderness, he ran a hand through his dark hair while his eyes were once again drawn to the strange sight of Hermione Granger asleep in on oversized chair at his side.   


Numerous reasons to explain a situation which would have led to those circumstances ran through his mind but none of them seemed logical enough to be the truth. Brow furrowed -- despite the tingle of pain it shot through his head -- he studied her as he had that day when he'd found her in the courtyard, again struck by the quality of difference which clung to her. The riotous mass of hair for which she was known tumbled around her sleeping frame, its brown color burnished to copper by the sun's light, and her school robe flung over her as a make-shift blanket. Soundly asleep, her face was a mask of tranquility where it rested against her folded arms and knees, dark lashes whispering against her cheek.   


Strange how she paradoxically could look younger and still older than he'd ever seen her appear.   


Still wondering over her presence, Snape was startled _yet again_ when something which suspiciously resembled a cat's meow sounded from the foot of his bed. He craned his neck for a better view, just in time to see a huge orange cat saunter around the bed. The creature sat on the floor on his right, head cocked to the side in what mimicked a thoughtful posture in humans, its yellow eyes watching the professor as hawkishly as he had ever watched his students. Snape was both amused and alarmed by the feline's frank gaze, all the while a half-forgotten memory nagging at the back of his mind, triggered by the cat…  


A second later he remembered where he had first seen the bandy-legged cat and his eyes narrowed untrustingly. It was the cat which had been so friendly with Sirius Black that night in the Shrieking Shack those four years ago, one which had had the bad taste in humans to make such a friendship. "What do you want?" he asked the cat suspiciously, unconsciously keeping his voice low as to not wake the sleeping young woman. He thought it better to deal with one unwanted visitor at a time.   


Instead of being frightened away by the low growl of a question, the cat effortlessly jumped up on the bed with the easy grace possessed by all felines and padded silently across the bedcovers on tiny paws until its large face was almost nose-to-nose with the man, long whiskers brushing against dark eyebrows. Before Snape had the chance to back-hand the animal away from him, the cat began to purr loudly, smoothing rubbing his furry cheek against his, in what seemed to be a show of affection. Still purring, it turned with a flick of its tail in his face and then leapt to the floor. Without a backwards glance, it jauntily exited the hospital wing, leaving Snape mystified by its sudden appearance and equally abrupt departure.   


As he watched the cat leave, Hermione shifted in her position and yawned, the sound escaping through her lips a soft mew of protest as she struggled to awaken.   


"How very articulate of you, Miss Granger," the professor said wryly, his voice low and controlled for effect. "If only you spoke as well in class."   


Snape had expected her to gasp or cowl at his comment, but she only unfurled her limbs so that she was merely sitting and not huddled in the chair as she blinked her eyes in attempt to drive away any lingering sleep. "Oh, you're awake," she breathed in relief, her face brightening even as she spoke.   


So unused to such positive reactions, he scowled at her. "And observant as well. Really, Miss Granger, you astound me."   


"Pay him no attention, Miss Granger," Madame Pomfrey's arrival with a tray laden with food quickly ended the exchange. "The Professor is always a bit short when he's sick. Like a angry little boy, he is, mad at the world because he can't play outside with the other children."   


Hermione couldn't help but to giggle at the image of her professor as an angry little boy, sulking because he was forced to stay bed due of illness.   


Snape turned his glare on the mediwitch. "Woman, hold your tongue! And you, Miss Granger -- another sound out of you and there will be points missing from Gryffindor directly."   


The girl was strangely reassured by his acerbic manner, comforted by the fact that he felt well enough to snap at her. Also, his threatening tone was lost by the effect his appearance had on his whole demeanor; it was difficult to be bullied by a man in his dressing gown who was still sitting in bed.   


"You'll do no such thing, Severus," the nurse frowned at him. "I take it from your cheeky attitude that you took the draught I left on the table?"   


A terse nod. "Of course."   


She nodded in satisfaction before turning kind eyes onto Hermione. "Won't you run along and get yourself some breakfast, dear? You've just got time to make it. I'm sure that I can handle him well enough." An insulted snort punctuated her comment as the student stood, stretching in order to rid her back of the kinks which came from sleeping in a chair.   


"Thank you, Madame Pomfrey," she returned. She glanced down at Snape. "I hope you feel better soon, Professor."   


"Your concern is touching," he sneered. The effect was once again ruined.   


She gave him a smile, one devoid of any sarcastic overtones and headed toward the door. At her retreating back, Poppy called. "Miss Granger, I expect to see you back here in a few hours. The headmaster told me that he wanted you to continue with your…task…for a few more days, until the professor is up and around."   


When she paused and glanced back, her smile was slightly smug. "Of course," she answered, then disappeared from the wing into the darkened hallway.   


"May I ask why that girl was here?" he demanded as soon as he was certain that said child was out of hearing range.   


The mediwitch set the tray of breakfast across his lap. "That young woman saved your life last night. She found you, unconscious and badly injured, lying outside the door to your chambers. Show a little gratitude, you hear. If not for her, you wouldn't be here to snark at anyone."   


Frowning, Snape remained silent at this knowledge, having two of his questions answered neatly at once. He had remembered returning to the castle and making it as far as his door…after that, he only recalled darkness and pain, until he'd awoke in hospital that morning. "That doesn't explain why she was still here this morning."   


Poppy clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "She was worried about you, for one -- although I can't understand why, the way you treat most of your students. And Professor Dumbledore asked her to sit with you, so you had better be polite to her when she comes back. The headmaster said that he thought that you could use some company while you were here."   


"I won't be here long enough to need any company," he objected. "I feel fine."   


"That's because you haven't tried to use your legs," she pointed out. "And the potion is blocking out most of the pain -- for now." Her face sobered and the worry was evident in the deepened lines. "You were in a bad way last night."   


"It was nothing out of the ordinary," he assured, his tone losing some of its biting edge. "It's just that I can only stave off the effects for so long. Malfoy…detained me in my return so that I was unable to make it safely to my rooms before the pain overcame me."   


A heavy kind of silence fell upon them, born of too many days spent in the same conversation, the same thoughts being thought but never spoken.   


Breaking the tension, Madame Pomfrey gestured toward the food. "Well, eat. You'll need your strength and Miss Granger will be back soon."   


He gave her a sour look. "You're correct in the fact that it'll take all my strength to put up with Miss Granger."   


Pomfrey made another show of disapproval at his harsh demeanor before leaving him to eat in blessed solitude, alone with his thoughts.   


Despite his harsh words, Snape couldn't help but remember Hermione's obvious relief that he seemed well after the events of the previous night, not even sparing a moment to be wounded by his brash manner. Coupled with the mediwitch's words about Miss Granger's concern over his welfare, it seemed as if she actually…cared? What a strange thought, indeed.   


Remembering her glowing face at realizing that he was awake, Snape was touched -- in spite of himself.   
  
  


*****

  
  


As promised, Hermione returned after the end of her classes that afternoon, armed with a stack of books from the library which she had been told by the headmaster might interest the incapacitated professor. For herself, she brought her school texts along, deciding to use the time for the revision she'd missed the night before.   


Professor Dumbledore had found her that morning as she left the infirmary, telling her that he had arranged with Madam Pomfrey for her to continue with her nursemaid duties until Snape was fit enough to leave the hospital wing. "It will give you a chance to see if your heart and mind can come to some sort of agreement," he'd explained, his eyes twinkling. Hermione still wasn't certain if she wanted to thank him or hex him for the opportunity to spend time with the Potions master. She had done well since her conversation with him to continue to act as if Snape meant little more to her than a unnecessarily strict and over-demanding teacher and she had succeeded quite well at her self-given mission. The last thing she wanted to do was lose that carefully cultivated distance, but she had to admit that any unhappiness about the situation was outweighed by the euphoric effect of knowing that the man was alive. After seeing him gravely injured, Hermione was so pleased to see him at all that her mood was lighter and more forgiving than it normally would be when faced with the change in circumstances.   


"I see you've returned," the professor remarked dryly as he watched her drop her satchel of school books onto the floor next to the tacky-colored chair. "And you've brought the whole library with you."   


"Sorry to disappoint, but this is far from the whole library," she told him, carefully stacking the books on the beside table, mindful of the cup of tea which shared the space. "But Professor Dumbledore gave me a list of books which he thought you might enjoy while you were here, so I brought a few with me."   


"A few?"   


Not bothering to answer, Hermione set out of finish her Transfiguration reading, while Snape browsed through the book titles before deciding upon one. In unexpected harmony, the pair remained quietly busy at their independent tasks. Snape, for one, was startled at finding the silent companionship oddly comfortable; he had never been one for company of any kind, but a quiet Miss Granger was not as bothersome as he had told Poppy that she'd be.   


After an indeterminate amount of time, the professor closed his book and fixed his gaze onto the young woman at his side so intent on her reading that she noticed little of the world around her. "Miss Granger."   


"Yes, sir?" she answered dutifully, although her eyes were fixated on the printed words of the text.   


"Both the headmaster and Madame Pomfrey have informed me of how I came to find himself in the hospital wing," he spoke softly. The words were painstakingly concise, as if he had carefully deliberated each word before speaking them. "So, I feel as if I must thank you for your…concern and your aid."   


With faint amusement, Hermione realized that it was like pulling teeth, for him to thank her. "You're welcome," she demurred, although mischief danced in her eyes. "But I'm really not the one who you should be thanking."   


An eyebrow shot up. "Then who do you suggest I thank?"   


"Crookshanks."   


"Who?"   


"My cat," she told him. "The only reason I found you was that my cat was lost in the dungeons. He happened to be where you were." She didn't feel the need to explain that Crookshanks had led her to him.   


At the mention of a cat, Snape's impassive face darkened, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "This cat of yours wouldn't, by any chance, be rather large and orange, would he? With a penchant for helping escaped prisoners from Azkaban who are illegal animagi?"   


Suddenly, Hermione was engrossed in her textbook.   


"Miss Granger?"   


"That could describe Crookshanks," she admitted reluctantly, eyes fastened to the pages of her book.   


"As I thought." Snape smugly returned his attention to his novel, satisfied. It still, however, did not explain the cat's strange behavior toward himself, he realized.   


The next long lapse of silence was broken when Madam Pomfrey came bustling into the hospital wing, another blue bottle in hand. "Oh, hello, dear," she greeted Hermione with a smile. Briskly, she presented the bottle to the professor. "For you, Severus."   


Biting back a sarcastic comment, Snape took the proffered potion obediently while Pomfrey began to chat with Hermione about her classes and her life in general. The patient smothered another unpleasant remark by burying his face in his book, the females' conversation ringing in the background.   


"So, are looking forward to graduation?" The mediwitch asked as she sifted through one of the large oak cabinets in the corner of the massive infirmary.   


"A bit," she confessed. "But I'm a little anxious. Everything will be much different next year. I'll miss the familiarity of returning to Hogwarts."   


Pomfrey bobbed her head in agreement. "I felt the same way when I left and that was a long time ago. Have you decided on a school yet?"   


That particular question caused her girl to frown thoughtfully. "I've been accepted into Oxford and Brussels," she told her. "But I'm still waiting for something from Trinity. That's my first choice."   


"I'm sure you'll receive your acceptance any day now," she said encouragingly. "You're one of the most clever students to come through here in years."   


"You're going into mediwizardry training?" Snape entered the conversation, his smooth voice tinted with faint disbelief.   


"Why do you think that?" she questioned defensively, irked by his tone.   


"Because Trinity is renowned for two subjects: mediwizardry and Potions," he explained.   


"How did you know that I wasn't going to study Potions?" she challenged. "I do have the highest marks in your class."   


"In order to be accepted into any Potions course of study, you would have had to have a letter of recommendation from your instructor," he answered snidely. "And since I have written no such letter, then you could not have been accepted into Oxford or Brussels, much less Trinity." Since she giving him an outraged look, he added grudgingly. "I wasn't implying that there was anything amiss with you studying mediwizardry, Miss Granger." A pause. "I was merely surprised."   


"What did you expect?" she asked.   


He rolled his eyes. "Something much more exciting and dangerous than medicine," he replied sarcastically. "Something which would make use of your Gryffindor stupidity and impulsive bouts of pseudo-heroism. Truthfully, I would have expected you to follow in your friends' footsteps. They're going into Auror training, I believe."   


"We're aren't joined at the hip," she told him sourly. "We all three have different plans and goals for our lives. Their plans don't dictate mine."   


"One of the few good decisions you've made in your life, then. It would have been a waste of talent if you've had went and gotten yourself blown up as an Auror or some such nonsense."   


She was about to retort when Hermione realized exactly what the teacher had just said. "Did you just pay me a compliment, Professor?" she inquired, incredulous.   


"I was merely stating a fact," he objected brusquely. "It is no fault of mine that you garner so few of them that you cannot recognize what a compliment is."   


Despite the back-handed nature of his comments, she couldn't help but grin. "Thank you, Professor," she said good-naturedly. "Now I know to chalk this day up as one of the strangest ones of my life."   


"Most medical students who graduated from Hogwarts are from Hufflepuff," he informed her. "That was another reason for the surprise." His dark eyes glittered dangerously, and something akin to a smile touched his mouth. Neither were good omens. "Although, you seem to have begun to display more than a few Hufflepuff traits recently -- loyalty, for one."   


Even as she fought it, Hermione could feel the heat rising in her cheeks which meant that she was probably so flushed that she matched her gold-and-red-striped tie. She rolled her eyes in exasperation, sullenly crossing her arms in silent fury, knowing that nothing she could say would lessen her acute embarrassment. She tossed her hair in a feminine signal of displeasure which sent the heavy locks into a furious cascade, the pink in her face heightening the flashing quality of her brown eyes which peered at him in haughty indignation.   


Watching her reaction, Snape fought just as valiantly to hold off the amusement which it elicited as she had to quell her embarrassment. Unfortunately, he lost as soundly as his flustered student had.   


The sound of Snape's rich laughter echoed off the empty stone calls, filling the otherwise quiet infirmary with sound.   


Properly astounded by the occasion of the Potions Master laughing, Hermione felt her embarrassment and anger ebb away as she observed him, watching with interest the way in which laughter changed his face much in the same way sleeping had. The sight, coupled with the sound, left her feeling warm from head to toe.   


When the laughter faded, Snape smirked at her unrepentantly, his face still showing faint traces of the humor he had felt. In that moment, his usual arrogant expression almost resembled a smile.   


And being the silly schoolgirl which she was, Hermione couldn't stop herself from smiling back. "Thank you," she scolded him in mock-anger. "For reminding me that there's at least one more day which I can safely say was more bizarre than this one."   


Snape schooled his expression, but the humor was still apparent in his eyes. "My pleasure, Miss Granger."   
  
  


*****

  
  


When Hermione waltzed into the Great Hall the next morning for breakfast, she couldn't help but grin when her eyes swept the mostly-empty staff table to find Professor Snape in attendance, properly attired in his customary high-collared shirt and waistcoat under billowing black robes. His expression was the usual one -- a mixture of boredom, disdain and misery -- dark eyes casting baleful glares at each table in turn.   


When his eyes fell on her, she paused, shifting the weight of her book satchel onto one hip as she stood and bore his observance with mocking patience. As if satisfied, he inclined in his head in a subtle acknowledgement, before sliding his eyes over to the Slytherin table.   


Finding her mood somehow lightened by the mere fact that Snape was well enough to once again terrorize her and her friends in class, Hermione sat next to Harry at the Gryffindor table, enthusiastically filling her plate with food.   


"Good morning, Hermione," he mumbled between bites.   


"Same to you, Harry."   


"Where have you been?" he asked, pushing his sliding glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. "Didn't see you at all yesterday after classes."   


"I had an extra assignment," she evaded smoothly. "It's over now."   


Ron collapsed across from them, looking as if he'd been without sleep. "I hate Transfiguration," he stated without preamble before attacking his own breakfast.   


"If you didn't wait until the last minute to do everything, then you wouldn't have to pull all-nighters," lectured Hermione.   


"Real helpful, you are," he grumbled, shaking his head. When he spared a glance at the staff table, his distressed face became even more troubled. "Ugh, of all the rotten luck!"   


"What?" Harry wanted to know, leaning toward him conspiratorially.   


Ron grimaced dramatically. "Snape's back. I should have known that we wouldn't be lucky enough to for him to stay sick long enough to miss our class. I wish he'd stayed ill a few more days. Then we wouldn't have had to see his ugly face again until Monday."   


"Ron, that's horrible!" the girl chided him. "Wishing someone sick just so you don't have to go to class."   


"Not anyone, 'Mione," he corrected her, waving around his fork with a sausage speared on its prongs. "_Snape_. That's a big difference."   


"It's still horrible and your mother would be ashamed of you if she knew."   


At the mention of the formidable Weasley matriarch, Ginny drew the conversation away from its inflammatory path into the safer waters of the next Quidditch match. The two Weasleys, Harry, Seamus and Dean were all animatedly discussing strategies while Hermione quickly revised her Charms assignment when mail began to rain down on the students from the swooping owls above them. Since none of the sports addicts received any mail, they paid little attention as two letters dropped on Hermione's parchment, interfering with her efforts to dot a missed 'i.' Laying her quill aside, she reached for the unfamiliar one, ignoring the letter which had been sent in a standard letter-sized envelope with her name printed on it with a ball-point pen -- she knew that one to be from her mother.   


With trepidation, she noticed the crest on the sealing wax as she carefully opened the envelope then unfolded the letter held within. Quickly scanning the contents, she blanched momentarily before breaking out in a smile so radiant that it lit her face entirely, taking full advantage of the perfect teeth she'd gained in fourth year.   


"Seamus! Seamus!" she called, raising her voice sharply to cut over the excited sports chatter. Her smile was temporarily dimmed by her best know-it-all expression.   


Everyone stopped talking when Seamus leaned forward to see around Dean. "Yeah, Hermione?"   


The smile shone once again, even more brightly. "You owe me a shamrock muffler."   


A roar of congratulations rippled through the Gryffindor table while the teachers watched on in indulgent amusement.   


Even Snape.   
  
  


*****

  
  
  


_Author's Notes_: The first prolonged SS/HG interaction is now behind me, thank goodness. If you couldn't tell from this chapter, I love cats. Their quirky personalities are hiliarious and with Crookshanks being smarter than most, he's stranger than most. And to all you wonderful reviewers, thanks again! I love reviews; they make me happy. Here are a few direct answers to some comments/questions sent to me:  


Flourish - After what Dumbledore tells Harry in CoS about the Sorting Hat, I figured that he would support free will over any kind of predestination. Choices and all that.  


Goddessnmb1 - I only regret the length of chapters because I'm trying to write more in the same amount of time!  


kiki-0303 - Thanks for backing me up! ^_^ It's also good to know from someone who is Chinese that my professor hasn't been lying to me about what those characters mean.  


auroraziazan - You're right; I've having great fun. It's exciting when one first starts out into a new fandom, particularly when she receives such encouragement from all you reviewers.  


As always, please review because then you get cookies. 


	6. And yes she matters to you

**Heart over mind : Part VI  
And yes she matters to you  
**

  


***

  


NEWTs came and went in a flurry of late nights and early mornings, leaving in its wake a group of very relieved seventh-year students, most of whom were giddy from the simple knowledge that it was all over. Even Draco Malfoy had been seen striding through Hogwarts with a genuine smile on his face in place of his trademark sneer after he had finished his final examination.   


The first summer day which dawned with no threat of a taxing exam hanging over their heads found Hermione, Harry and Ron loping down the empty hallways of the school on their way outdoors with the singular intent of enjoying the bright, sunny weather. Forgoing the formality of robes and their school uniforms, all three of them were dressed in jeans, although Harry's T-shirt was still a bit too big for him while Ron's was thin with wear and wash.   


"You do realize that we'll never take another exam as students here, don't you?" Hermione remarked nostalgically, slightly saddened as she glanced back at one of the classrooms as they passed.   


"Don't worry, Hermione. I'm sure that they'll be exams enough for you at Trinity," Ron consoled her, grinning as he dodged her playful swipe at his head.   


"That's not what I meant," she chided him. "And you know it."   


"Of course, I did," he answered. "But I don't want you to turn into a girl on us, now do I? You'll start crying and wailing and --"   


"What do you mean 'turn into a girl?'" she demanded, her tone outraged.   


"Uh oh. Sounds like fighting words to me, Ron," Harry told him, laughing.   


"Now, you know what I meant," the redhead said.   


"Lucky for you that I'm in a good mood," she returned. "Or else I'd let you have it. As it is, I'm still rather surprised about the exams. They weren't nearly as bad as I thought they would be."   


"Speak for yourself," grumbled Ron. "Those things were damned horrible!"   


"Why do I have this strong feeling of déjà vu all of a sudden?" Harry asked teasingly.   


Ron grinned. "Probably because we've been having the same argument for seven years now, mate."   


"And it'll be the last," Hermione added. "I guess we'll just have to find other things to fight about."   


"I don't think it'll be hard for you and Ron to find something else to fight about," Harry laughed. "Seeing as how you seem to fight over everything."   


Old memories seemed to be prepared to bubble to the surface at every word of any conversation, overwhelming the soon-to-be graduates with a heavy sense of nostalgia. Once they reached the lake, the trio chose an isolated spot where they could enjoy -- for just a few more hours -- being themselves, the inseparable ring of friends fused together through the machinations of one of Voldemort's minions and a club-toting troll almost seven years before.   


Under the canopy of a huge, ancient oak whose twisted network of branches left the ground streaked with irregular blotches of sun in the carpet of shade, Hermione lay flat on her back looking up into the gently swaying limbs as Harry and Ron did the same, all of them suddenly quiet in the serenity of the moment, the far-off din of other students not encroaching on their sacred space. Nothing needed to be said in the perfection of the moment.   


Finally, the girl released her held breath in a long, lazy sigh. "One week, and then we'll be gone."   


"Thank the gods," Ron chuckled quietly, sprawled inelegantly on the cool grass. "I'd hate to have to repeat a year, like Marcus Flint."   


"Me, too." Harry agreed, using Hermione's bent knees as a backrest. "But we have 'Mione to thank for that."   


"Well, that's my job," she answered breezily. "Keep the Boy Who Lived and Friend from showing the world what dolts they really are."   


"Is it now?" One of Harry's eyebrows disappeared into the fringe of his unruly hair as he looked over his shoulder at her. "And I thought it was to be the Girl Who Knew Everything."   


"Or at least the Girl Who Thought She Knew Everything," Ron piped in.   


"Both of you can sod off!" she snorted, nudging the dark-haired boy in the back with her knee.   


"We love you, too," Harry laughed.   


"Always and forever," Ron admitted.   


"I hate boys," she declared, as she had numerous times in her teenaged years, bemoaning the fact that she had been cursed with two clueless males for best friends.   


"I'm hurt," Ron teased, faking a wounded expression. "Here we tell you of our undying affection and you say you hate us."   


She pushed herself up on her elbows so that she could see both of her friends. "I'm going to miss this place terribly. Won't you?"   


"Of course, I will. Hogwarts is the closest place I've ever had to a home," Harry revealed. "It'll be hard to get used to the idea that I won't be coming back in September."   


"I'll miss some of it," Ron told them. "But some things I can certainly live without. Malfoy, for one. Snape, for another."   


"Yeah, not having to see them is definitely a plus," Harry concurred. "Not to mention Divination. Never again will I have to listen to Trelawny predict in what gruesome way I will die next. It really gets old after a while."   


Unlike her friends, the mention of Snape only reminded Hermione of something else that she was going to miss about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She only hoped that the old adage about distance making the heart grow fonder didn't hold true in her case because the last thing she wanted was to care more for him than she already did. It was terrible enough that he had somehow wormed his way into her constant list of everyday worries, only edged out in importance by Harry and her parents. Ever since she had found him bloodied and unconscious in the dark halls of the dungeons, she had come to anxiously wait for him to make his appearance at breakfast, only to reassure herself that he was safe. It was foolish and unnecessary -- but she couldn't suppress that unease until she could see him with her own eyes as he swept into the Great Hall, glaring at all and sundry. It was silly, she'd told herself, but she hadn't found a way to stop it.   


So she had simply lived with it.   


"…said that Sirius was definitely going to be here," Harry was saying when the girl pulled herself out of the reveille. "Of course, he'll have to attend as Snuffles, but he'll be here. That's what matters. Let's just hope that no one questions why Remus has a big black dog with him at graduation."   


"Speaking of Animagi…do you know your animal form yet?" Ron wanted to know, directing his question to the quiet young woman.   


"Yes." Actually, she had learnt her Animagus form sometime after the _hayam_ fiasco but before she'd spent a day as Snape's nursemaid, but she neglected to share the information with her friends.   


Both were immediately interested, Ron so much so that he sat up to look at her. "So, aren't going to tell us what it is?"   


"Nooooooo," was her honest reply."   


"Why not?"   


"We promise we won't make fun of you," Ron assured, a devilish gleam in his eye. "Much." When Hermione had first told them of her plans to train to be an Animagus, Ron had predicted that she'd turn into a worm, giving her old nickname 'Hermione the know-it-all bookworm,' a whole new meaning. Ever since then, it had been one of his favorite running jokes, much to his friend's annoyance.   


"I will tell you when I've completed my training," she informed them tartly. "Until then…my earlier comment applies."   


Harry shifted his position until he was kneeling, resting his folded arms on Hermione's bent knees, a stance which allowed him to see her face. "You've been keeping a good number of secrets from us," he reminded her quietly. "First the _hayam_ business and now the Animagus stuff. I'm bound to wonder…what else are you hiding?"   


"Nothing!" she protested, not at all easy with the mischievous glint in those green eyes. "It's just…some things are very private for me, alright?" _And I'm worried that you'll never speak to me again if I tell you about Snape. Why ruin our friendship over a seriously one-sided infatuation?_   


"Uh huh," he said, not convinced. "Still we've always told you who we had crushes on. It doesn't seem fair that you won't tell us who your soul-mate is."   


"Well, I told you who it _wasn't_," she reminded him. "That's better than nothing." Her expression turned smug. "And Mr. Harry Potter, I distinctly remember you telling -- nay, _begging_ -- me not to tell Ron when you first decided you liked Ginny."   


"She's got you there, mate," Ron pointed out. "Not that I don't want to know, because I do. Just tell us, 'Mione. You can trust us."   


"No, I can't," she disagreed, laughingly. "It's neither one of you and that's all you need to worry about. And it's not Malfoy. Or any member of the Weasley family. That narrows it down, doesn't it?"   


"Sure to all but 10 members of the wizard population," said Harry dryly. "You're being obstinate for the fun of it, aren't you?"   


She giggled. "Of course I am."   


A look passed between the two young men and the twin devilish smiles on their faces widened. "Well, you know what this means," Harry told her mock-seriously.   


"You have to be punished," Ron dead-panned.   


Her eyes widened when she fully understood their meanings. "You wouldn't dare!"   


"Oh, yes, we would."   


"Harry Potter," she admonished as she tried to wriggle free of the grasp he had on her calves. "We're 17 years old, much too old to be -- GET OFF, YOU -- !"   


The remainder of her statement was lost in the very girly squeal she made when both Harry and Ron pounced on her, tickling her mercilessly as the three of them mock-fought and wrestled as they had done when they were children, rough-housing on the soft ground in the warm summer sun.   


The afternoon air was filled with the undignified but happy noise of three seventh-years briefly reliving the childhood which circumstance had caused them to abandon all too early.   
  
  


*****

  
  


When the examination results were posted a week later, no one was surprised that Hermione had managed the best scores, shattering Percy's record and a half-dozen others on her way to the highest NEWTs in fifty years. No one was more pleased with the results than her Head of House and her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.   


"I knew she could do it," Professor McGonagall practically beamed as she, the headmaster and Professor Lupin chatted over tea in the staff room after having helped with the posting of grades. "I'm so proud of her."   


That was high praise, coming from the usually reserved Transfiguration teacher.   


"As am I," Remus admitted, smiling. "And knowing how hard she worked, I'm doubly happy for her. A bit of a worrier, that one is."   


"Miss Granger has once again proven herself to be one of the cleverest witches that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing here at Hogwarts," Dumbledore added kindly, his blue eyes twinkling. "And she is living proof that any nonsense about pure-blooded wizards being somehow superior to Muggleborns is just that -- nonsense."   


"Yes, but at what price?" Snape's voice flowed from his usual corner by the fire. Instead of the usual book to hold his attention, he was staring vacantly into the fire. "That of her safety?"   


"Severus, I doubt by making good grades she's made her list of enemies any longer," McGonagall told him.   


"Not longer," he said slowly, deliberating over his words. "But she has added yet another reason to the already long list of reasons for her to be targeted. Muggleborn, best friend of Harry Potter, personal foil to young Malfoy…none of them are in her favor. This only adds to it. The fact that her mere existence taunts certain narrow-minded beliefs held by many pureblood wizards puts her in danger."   


"If I didn't know better, I would think that you cared," Remus spoke mildly.   


"I care about all my students, Lupin, insomuch as I don't want to see any of them as the victims of Death Eaters and that includes Miss Granger," he scowled, still watching the fire. "The Dark Lord has an unwavering obsession with killing Harry Potter. And Lucius Malfoy has a similar fixation on asserting the superiority of pure bloods over Muggleborns. Her death fits nicely in with both those agendas. I'm not blaming her, Minerva," he snapped, cutting off the other instructor's comment before she had a chance to make it. "I am merely stating the obvious."   


"Are you certain you're not just upset because her scores were even higher than your own?" Remus teased, trying to pull the Potions Master away from his dark thoughts. His trouble only earned him a glare.   


Minerva stood, briskly patting a stray strand of hair neatly back into place. "I'll not have this day ruined with such horrible thoughts," she told the three men sternly. "We have so few reasons to celebrate these days as it is and I would like this graduation to run as smoothly as possible. It's bad enough that the girl can't even have her parents here!" With that, she hurried out of the staff room.   


"She's taking this years' leaving particularly hard," Dumbledore explained. "I daresay she's become rather attached to this batch of students -- Harry, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, particularly."   


The werewolf stood as well, moving toward the door. "She's not the only one," he admitted quietly before slipping out of the room, leaving the headmaster alone with the sullen Potions instructor.   


"Is this the same instructor who swore to me that he had no special interest in Miss Granger?" the headmaster questioned thoughtfully. "You're remarkably concerned about her for that to be the case."   


"I'm concerned about all of them, Albus. They aren't prepared, not for the world which awaits them," Snape stated simply, almost emotionlessly.   


"No one is ever prepared for war, Severus," the older man told him. "Not truly. And I would contend that Miss Granger is among the few who might be considered the most prepared. She has faced a great deal in her time here."   


He sighed. "I know, but she had placed herself in great risk, mostly in ways which have been through no deliberate design of her own."   


"The same can be said for Harry and young Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore reminded him. "And yet, you don't seem to be torturing yourself over their welfares at this moment. Why is that, Severus?"   


Snape scowled, his dark eyes still watching the flames pop and flicker against the darkened soot-stained stone of the hearth. How could he explain to Dumbledore that somewhere in the past few months there had become a subtle difference between the infuriatingly stubborn but brilliant Miss Granger and the remainder of his students? That she, by showing him the kindness which few other than Dumbledore had shown to him in the past two decades, had crossed a thin, imperceptible line from student into something else entirely? He could still remember those moments when he had realized that she had actually _cared_ that he had not died on those cold dungeon stones, and how touched he'd been, despite his own reservations.   


How could he explain all those strange thoughts when they made no sense to him?   


Snape remembered too late that there was little one actually needed to say to Dumbledore; the old man could know more from a glance into someone's eyes than most could from the clever use of Veritaserum. Those caring blue eyes caught Snape's dark ones and the younger man was certain that the headmaster knew of all the thoughts which had sped through his mind.   


Rising slowly, Dumbledore crossed the room so that he could lay his hand on Snape's shoulder. "You are a good man, Severus," he stated. "No matter what you say to the contrary. You protect Harry with your life and you work just as tirelessly on a subtle campaign to save Draco from the fate which awaits him if he follows his father. And now, it seems, you have added the inestimable Miss Granger to your list of special projects."   


He shifted moodily in his chair. "There's nothing noble or good about my actions, Albus. I protect Potter because I owe his father a debt," he frowned. "And I try to help Malfoy because the last thing the Dark needs on its side is another Lucius Malfoy."   


"Of course," Dumbledore acquiesced, as he often did when arguing with the stubborn professor, knowing that retreat was often the best strategy . "If you'll excuse me, I must take my leave of you. I'm sure Minerva is somewhere ready to burst into tears at the slightest provocation and I had better check on her."   


Snape didn't turn to watch the headmaster leave but he followed the old man's progress by the faint sound his movements caused. With his ears, he noticed the pause Dumbledore made before exiting. "You protect Harry because of James," he reiterated. "And you try to save Malfoy because of – or, rather in spite of – Lucius. Why, then, do you worry about Miss Granger? I don't think you've ever met _her_ father."   


With a soft chuckle at the exasperated look on his spy's face, Dumbledore disappeared behind the heavy oak door, leaving Snape alone to stare into the firelight and think on what he had said.   
  
  


*****

  
  


In spite of the heavy security measures and the fact that it had been deemed too dangerous for most Muggleborns to invite their parents, graduation turned out to be an immensely wonderful affair. Both Harry and Hermione who were without their parents' presence on the most joyful day found themselves mothered far more than necessary by Mrs. Weasley, who had little trouble in extending her maternal urges to include two more children. When Mrs. Granger had been notified of the safety precautions which had discouraged the travels of Muggles into the wizard world, she had been ferocious in her anger, declaring -- with an impressive vocabulary of curse words that her daughter never dreamed her mother could use -- that no Dark Lord would stop her from seeing her only child graduate. It had taken Hermione and her father hours to calm the dental surgeon and still more hours before she had grudgingly agreed to remain at home.   


"Look at you three!" Molly gushed as she bustled over to grab Ron, Harry and Hermione in a vice-like hug. "All grown up and graduated. I still remember that first time I seen you all in King's Cross station, just back from your first year here and --"   


"Mum, geroff. You're strangling us," Ron managed to choke out.   


She released them, only to pull Ron into another embrace. "And you, Ron! My baby boy has graduated Hogwarts. Oh, I can't believe it. He's become such a nice young man, as handsome and as brave as they come."   


Harry and Hermione stood back, trying not to laugh at the look of mixed irritation and affection on Ron's face as he pried his mother's arms from around him. The rest of the Weasley clan had joined them by the time Ron was free of his mother, offering their congratulations to the new graduates. Of course, Fred and George took every opportunity to needle ickle Ronnekins, but otherwise remained on their best behavior on pain of serious injury if their mother caught them acting out of line.   


Almost two hours into the reception, Hermione was deep in discussion Seamus's aunt about the best wizarding establishments near Trinity College when Harry appeared at her elbow and gently drew her away from the friendly Irishwoman. "What is it, Harry?" she inquired when they were out of earshot.   


His green eyes were glittering with barely-contained excitement. "We're all going up to Dumbledore's office to continue the reception there so that Sirius can transform," he explained in hushed tones. "Are you coming?"   


She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Not this minute. I've got something to do first. I'll be along directly."   


He nodded understandingly. "Come on up when you're ready. The password is Jawbreaker." With a quick wave, she watched his head disappear into the swarms of people as he headed out of the Great Hall on his way to Dumbledore's office for a visit with his godfather. Hermione waited until she was certain that he was gone and quietly followed, although she headed not for the tower where the headmaster's office was located but toward the dungeons.   


She had one more very important task to complete before she left Hogwarts for good.   
  
  


*****

  
  


As soon as it had been possible, Snape had escaped the graduation proceedings for the haven of his office, grateful to be far away from the celebrations. Not that he had ever been a very social creature, but he had much more sufficient reason to want to stay as far away as possible from the Great Hall than his misanthropic nature. With Lucius Malfoy in attendance at his son's graduation for propriety's sake, Snape knew it would only have been a matter of time before the pureblood would have ensnared him as a companion, forcing him to endure the Death Eater's presence through the crawling hours of the reception. Snape would have none of that.   


The actual ceremony had been a trial in and of itself, during which he had been seated with the Slytherin parents where interaction with Malfoy had been unavoidable. He had listened to the man's cutting under-his-breath comments throughout the entire procession: jibes at Dumbledore, at Potter, at all the Weasleys and a few truly disparaging insults directed toward a certain Muggleborn witch. It had taken every ounce of his formidable self-control to refrain from causing Malfoy bodily harm.   


It had been a simple matter to disappear into the shadows and quietly slip back to the dungeons. He doubted anyone save Dumbledore would even note his absence.   


Snape was rigorously sorting the last stack of parchments left on his desk in anticipation of the impending summer holidays when he heard the faint noise of someone approaching. Stubbornly ignoring whoever it was in hopes that they would leave, he kept his dark head bowed over his work, hand writing furiously.   


A clearing of the throat preceded the hesitant "Professor Snape?"   


He registered the feminine voice, instantly recognizing it. Sighing, he looked up from his task to see Hermione standing in the threshold, still garbed in her formal graduation robes, her voluminous hair marginally tamed into a coiled knot at the nape of her neck. "Miss Granger," he nodded curtly before returning to work.   


She loitered uncertainly just outside of the office. "May I have a few moments of your time?" she questioned tentatively.   


"I've suffered your presence for seven years. I think I may be able to withstand it a few minutes longer."   


Taking that dubious statement as a invitation, Hermione stepped into the office, her hands clasped together in an effort to combat the nervousness she felt. Now that she was here, in front of him, she was no longer certain of what she wanted to say, and she stood there silently, scrambling to collect her thoughts.   


"Do you plan on using your minutes to stare at me, Miss Granger?" he inquired darkly.   


She cleared her throat once again, and began to speak. "Well, sir, as you know I plan on attending Trinity to study mediwizardry."   


"And why is that of any great importance to me?"   


Hermione narrowed her eyes, her courage strengthening in the face of the customary derision. "You see, sir, I was hoping that you might…well, perhaps…as you said yourself, Trinity has a strong Potions department but they are rather well…cutthroat, the whole lot of them. And it's extremely difficult for anyone whose concentration isn't Potions to receive much in the way of …"   


"Please get to the point soon, Miss Granger. You are trying my patience."   


"I was hoping that you would consent to correspond with me as a sort of Potions advisor. While I'm certainly not going to be immersed in a Potions curriculum, medicinal Potions is a large part of the early mediwizardry training. I'm not even certain that I'll _need_ it, but it would be a great relief to know that I could turn to you for advice if I had a mind to do so."   


"Indeed?" Hermione sincerely detested that patronizing drawl of his, no matter how velvety smooth his voice was when he delivered it. Snape peered over his interlaced fingers to fix the girl with his piercing gaze. Although she still seemed nervous, Hermione refused to be intimated, meeting his eyes unflinchingly.   


"Well?" she questioned after a heavy silence.   


He leaned back in his chair, maddeningly superior in his dismissive gestures. "By all means, Miss Granger, if it will ease your mind, feel free to write me."   


She recognized the sarcasm with which he spoke, but she also recognized the humor hidden behind the words. She looked at him suspiciously, waiting for him to continue.   


"Medicinal Potions is not my specialty," he began slowly, pensively. "But I will consent to read whatever you send and then decide if it's worth my time to answer."   


"That's very generous of you," she told him, not bothering to mask the edge of sarcasm in her voice or the half-amused expression on her face.   


Something flashed over his face quickly, disappearing before Hermione had a chance to analyze it. "I thought so as well," admitted he silkily.   


Whatever reply Hermione had wanted to make was smothered by the arrival of Professor Dumbledore who chose that particular moment to enter the office. "There you are, Severus," he greeted the professor. "I knew that you would make a run for cover as soon as possible." His eyes moved from the man to the young woman, twinkling. "Ah, and Miss Granger! What on earth could you be doing here?"   


She could feel the bright blush creeping up her face at the headmaster's questions, detecting the faint note of insinuation in his mild tone. "I just had a question," she explained. There was a knowing smile on the headmaster's face.   


"Did you want something, Headmaster?" Snape inquired coolly.   


"Just to let you know that Mr. Malfoy is looking for you," he informed him. "Unfortunately, he is under the impression that you've already left for the summer." The old man's smile broadened. "I don't know how he ever came to that conclusion."   


There was genuine mirth on Snape's face as he said appreciatively, "Thank you, sir."   


"Not at all."   


Hermione cleared her throat, taking a step toward the door. "If you'll excuse me," she began. "I'm supposed to be meet Harry…"   


The headmaster nodded. "The password is Jawbreaker," he reminded her.   


She smiled. "I remember. Thank you, Headmaster. For everything."   


Dumbledore gently patted her on the cheek, as one would do a toddler. "Not at all, my child."   


She turned to leave, but glanced back over her shoulder at her instructor, her brown eyes shimmering with some complex emotion. "And thank _you_, Professor Snape," she grinned. "Not only for your _generous_ offer of assistance, but for a very interesting seven years. It has been a pleasure." Although she had meant it as a jest, as soon as the words left her mouth, Hermione realized that she meant them. _Ah, stupid emotions,_ she chastised herself. _They seem to be causing some kind of selective memory loss. There was nothing pleasant about his classes. Not even him._  


Snape regarded her as he responded, his dark eyes unreadable. "It has been an…experience teaching you, Miss Granger. One that I'm unlikely to forget."   


Somehow, a statement which could have been understood to mean so many different things made Hermione smile, a smile which was warm and honest. With another nod to the two men, she was gone.   


The headmaster looked at the seemingly unreadable expression fixed on Snape's face, noticing where others would not the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth which might be interpreted as a smile and the light in his eyes which seemed somehow softer.   


"You're going to miss her," he observed, delighted by the knowledge.   


"Yes," Snape admitted, surprised when he finally answered. "I do believe I will."   
  
  


***

  
  


_Author's Notes_: I'm fighting a bad sinus infection and sore throat, so there might be a few more errors in this part since my medication makes me a bit loopy for which I apologize. Only one sidenote: I've noticed that alot of people base their characterizations of Death Eaters on Nazis, a parallel which I certainly understand but since my knowledge of the inter-machinations of the Third Reich is a bit wanting, I've drawn my inspiration from a different source: the Ku Klux Klan. I'm not certain how different that will make my perception of a character like Lucius Malfoy from others, but that it is where I pulled much of ideas from on how he would behave or think.  


One a much happier note, I love all of you who have reviewed and I was estatic to see that this story now has over 100 reviews. Thank you all and please...review again! 


	7. In a stranger's eyes

**Heart over mind : Part VII  
In a stranger's eyes   
**

  


***

  


Miss Granger,  
I am beginning to believe that you are even more of a nuisance now that you have graduated and relocated a great distance away than you were when you sat in my class. At least, then I was not accosted by owls from you every morning as I seem to be now. It also leads me to wonder how much time you actually spend studying; so much of your time is spent in writing correspondence to me, I can only imagine and shudder at the sheer volume which must plague other persons, Potter and Weasley most especially. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong occupation -- I hear that professional writers earn a great deal of money and since I am not afflicted with a literary soul, you would no longer be able to justify what seems to be your perverse pleasure in bothering me.  


Oh, and you are correct in assuming that the goat's rue works most effectively if added only in the latest stages of brewing.  
  
SS   
  
  
  
Professor Snape,  
Allow me to apologize if my correspondence is so troublesome to you. I had thought that someone of your supposed intelligence would delight -- perhaps that is too strong a word to use in your case -- in having a forum in which he could put that expertise to use, as you do not do so in your classroom. However, your last letter has shown me that you are not up to the task of answering my fundamental questions about medicinal potions; it seems that your teaching has you too taxed for such reflection. Or perhaps you simply find the questions a little beyond your depth of knowledge as it was you who pointed out at graduation that medicinal potions were not your specialty. And I must agree that you are the kind who seems more likely to poison than to heal. Taking this into account, I will have to find another potions master for my inquiry on whether the use of lemon basalm would be able to negate the poisonous effects of heliotrope while strengthening its positive aspects. I am truly sorry to have wasted our time on this letter.   
  
Regretfully,  
H. Granger  
  
  
  
Miss Granger,  
Cunning is a good and useful thing -- however, when cunning is employed on such childish and simple-minded level as you displayed in your last missive, it only manages to make one look even more foolish. Your thinly veiled barbs at my supposed intelligence were ineffective and comical, at best. Do not think that what you wrote in trying to goad me into replying has worked in any way. Nor will I feel compelled to tell you that the lemon balsam will only fully negate the poison of the heliotrope when it is strengthened itself by the use of a simple honey-lemon infusion in order to defend the insult against my title as a master in my field. As your continued need for my aid proves on its own -- I am certainly your intellectual better in this subject, even though it is your concentration. This whole line of thought is becoming tiresome. I should not have to continue to teach you even after you have graduated. But if you plan on attempting any more subterfuge in the future and you would like to do it well, I suggest you locate a Slytherin former classmate and take some lessons. And perhaps they would offer you another outlet for all the leisure time you seem to have that you currently spend in sending me letters.   
  
SS  
  
  


***

  
  
  


The letters were not very nice, nor were they usually very long, but Hermione still felt as if something more were being said in them than the simple words which she and Snape wrote on the parchment. She was unexpectedly pleased with their sometimes stinging correspondence; Snape sounded in print as he had in person while she felt freer now that she was no longer at Hogwarts and his student. For once, she was at liberty to express her own sharp wit.  


More than once, she had wondered if she had developed it from watching him for seven years.  


Life at Trinity College was generally a pleasant one and her classes were the type for which she had always dreamed: challenging, engaging and deeply intellectual. As part of her general education requirements, she had to study a variety of subjects and her first term's classes consisted of Advanced Transfiguration, History of Magical Britain, Advanced Theoretical Arithomancy, Orientation to Mediwizardry and Medicinal Potions. With the exception of Arithomancy and her two mediwizardry periods, her classes were mostly to fulfill those general collegiate requirements.  


The only drawback to the new campus was her dorm mate, a snotty Anglo-French witch named Giselle Boisvert, a sophomore at Trinity seeking a degree in Astronomy. Despite the fact that she was dark-haired and dark-eyed, her whole countenance put Hermione in mind of Draco Malfoy: sleek, studied and snobbish, with a tangible air of supposed superiority about her. Giselle had spent the first two days of classes squabbling over closet space and regaling everyone who would listen about her impressive international -- and completely magical -- lineage which spanned Britain, France, Germany and Northern Italy. Hermione, whose maternal grandmother's family hailed from Sicily and had roots which could be traced through Italian, Arab, Norman and Greek -- but Muggle -- families, was unimpressed. Her dorm mate had become swiftly disinterested in Hermione's own background once the word 'muggle' had been mentioned and she suspected Giselle of holding Malfoy's own prejudice against Muggleborns. Not that it actually mattered to Hermione, since anyone who held such antiquated and uninformed opinions were beneath her in very way which mattered.   


Luckily, Giselle was in the minority at the internationally-oriented university and Hermione quickly found a kindred spirit in her HoMB study partner, an American who planned to pursue history degrees from both Trinity and a nearby Muggle college. Like Hermione, Maureen had been raised Muggle, but only because her mother -- a witch -- had chosen a non-magical life over a wizarding one. "She's so bizarre," she had admitted laughingly. "But now I think I'm as bad -- sometimes, I miss not being plain old un-magical me."   


It was a sentiment that the British Muggleborn witch sometimes shared and the two of them had become fast friends. Her new circle also included Wyatt, who had went to Hogwarts but had been a Hufflepuff three years ahead of her, and Elena, a Greek-Canadian who had attended as many boarding schools as years Hermione had spent at Hogwarts.   


The quartet spent much of their free time at a friendly pub located a few blocks away from the university's main campus, where Maureen worked part-time as a waitress and where the locals had a good many laughs at the expense of her accent. "What accent?" she'd joked with them when an elderly wizard exclaimed that her accent made her speech unintelligible.   


A few weeks into the fall term, she'd developed the amusing habit of trying other people's accents.   


A fortnight before the Christmas holiday and one week before final exams, Maureen felt the need to be Australian, although it sounded too-_Crocodile Dundee_ to be believable. "What can I do for you, mates?" she greeted them when she reached their table. "You're me last order before I'm off."   


"That accent is very very bad," Elena winced.   


"Too right," Wyatt imitated, laughing.   


"Just gimme your damn orders before Hermione adds her two cents," she told them good-naturedly, in her usual American English.   


After their waitress departed, Elena turned to Hermione, who had pulled a thick stack of letters from her satchel so that she could sort through them. "Are all of those yours?"   


Hermione nodded, neatly separately them into three piles, mentally marked 'bills,' 'friends' and 'other.' Snape's missives usually found themselves in 'other.'   


"Anything serious?" Wyatt inquired quietly, uncharacteristically serious. Since Elena and Maureen were both from North America, horrors such as Deatheaters and Voldemort seemed far removed to them, something from news reports and text books. But to Wyatt and Hermione -- both British, alumni of Hogwarts and acquaintances of Harry Potter -- they were very real, and the war which raged between Dark and Light was never too far from their minds.   


"No," she smiled, having finished with her classification. The bills were quickly returned to the satchel, while she opened the first of four in the friends' pile. There were no letters which contributed to the 'other' pile. "But I've letters from Harry, Ron, Ginny and my mother. No doubt they all want to know about Christmas."   


"Hear, hear," Elena grinned. "That's something that I'd like to discuss as well. Are you both going home?"   


"I'm not," Wyatt revealed. "Mum and Da are coming here instead, as well as Victoria. It's a bit of a celebration for my new flat. I hate to leave it for so long when I'm paying good money to live there."   


"Well, I am although I might spend a few days with the Weasleys," Hermione told them. "It'll be the first Christmas in ages that I didn't stay at school. My mother is very excited -- she even invited my grandparents for Christmas dinner."   


"How about you, Elena?"   


"I'm off to Greece," she answered. "A big family celebration on the island. And Maureen is coming with me."   


"Really?"   


She nodded. "I spent last Christmas with her family. It's her turn."   


"Although, I bet Greece will be a whole lot more exciting than Iowa is," Maureen laughed as she appeared with a heavy tray laden with their orders. After she distributed the plates piled high with food, she plopped gracelessly into the empty chair and sighed. "Shift is over."   


As they ate, Hermione quickly read over the letter which Harry had sent her. Snape had been correct in his assumption that she, Harry and Ron stayed in very constant contact with one another -- a week rarely passed when there was not an exchange of letters.   


_Dear Hermione,_ his letter began. _I hope school is treating you well, with the exams and homework assignments that you love to do. Training for Ron and I is intensive as ever but satisfying and ever so much more interesting than classes could ever be. Of course, you know I'm writing about Christmas. I'll spend most of it at the Weasleys (naturally -- it's not as if the Durseys would be thrilled to see me ) but I'm going to Hogwarts for a few days to visit Snuffles since it's the only safe place we can meet. How about you? I'm sure your mother will be glad to have you home for once. Write back and let me know when we can all meet up. Love, Harry._  


Hermione smiled fondly at the familiar messy scrawl before tucking it, along with the three unread letters, back into her satchel. She noticed how late it was and cringed. "I've got to leave," she announced to her friends. "It's late and I wanted to finish my History essay tonight so that I can start revision tomorrow."   


"Oh, no you don't!" Maureen protested as she grabbed Hermione's arm. "You sit down, missy and enjoy this our last dinner before exams make us crazy! You work too hard as it is. You need to have more fun."   


Elena and Wyatt added their agreement to Maureen's declaration.   


"This coming from the girl who has two full course loads and a job," said Hermione sarcastically. "I really can't. I told Giselle I'd be home early in the evening. She might worry if I don't show."   


"Uh huh, sure she will," Maureen rolled her eyes. "Come on, Hermione. When has she ever cared?"   


"Well, never, but…"  


"Say no more," Elena chimed in. "Sit down."   


Defeated, she lowered herself back into her seat, knowing that her friends were correct. Giselle had probably only asked so that she could make plans to be _away_ from the room if Hermione had planned to stay in. It was one of the many ways which they used to ensure that peace reigned in their cramped living space.   


In what seemed like only a few minutes later but was in actuality a solid three hours, the owner of the pub nicely ordered them to leave so that he could close for the night and the four students strolled down the half-moon lit streets, lazily heading for the old brick building which served as the girls' dormitory, in no hurry to reach their destination. Since the university was woven through half-dozen neighborhoods of the city, few of the buildings with the exception of the main campus were actually connected in conventional ways; instead, Apparition points and a complicated Floo Network allowed for movement between classrooms and dormitories. The Aldersgate dormitory for female students where Hermione, Maureen and Elena lived was actually located in a small, quiet neighborhood about three miles through the city streets away from Trinity's main Hall.   


"I wish that they had wizarding karaoke," Maureen was giggling as they crossed a narrow avenue, mindful of the few cars still out. "Hell, I wish I just knew where a Muggle bar was in this city with a karaoke machine. It'd be great fun."   


"Not if you sang," Elena said. "You sound like a dying frog."   


Maureen was indignant. "I do not! Do I, Wyatt?"   


"A suffering horse in need of euthanasia," he shook his head sadly. "Although I don't know what a karaoke machine is, if it involves you singing, I don't want to know."   


"I sing fine," Maureen argued stubbornly.   


"Of course, you do," Hermione patronized, knowing well that Maureen's singing was atrocious. "You try to sound that horrible when you sing."   


"Ha, ha. Just for that, I will punish you." She flung her arms out at her sides and bellowed, "ROCK ON GOLD RUST WOMAN! TAKE YOUR SILVER SPOON AND DIG AGAIN!"   


"Somebody save me from the noise!" Elena laughed, covering her ears.   


"Doesn't she mean Gold _Dust_ Woman?" Hermione asked Wyatt, grinning.   


"I think it's like that song she sang the other night…you know, _Blinded by Your Height._" Wyatt explained.   


"Americans," Hermione shook her head in mock-disapproval, stifling her laughter as the other young woman pretended to dance along with the sounds she made, her long skirt flowing with the quick movements of her hips. "I didn't know that you were supposed to belly-dance to Fleetwood Mac songs!"   


Sticking out her tongue, Maureen was preparing to launch into another verse of _Gold Rust Woman_ when the sky suddenly erupted into an eerie green which cast its sickly color over the witches and wizard. Aghast, Hermione spun to see the too-familiar skull hanging in the air like some kind of grisly shroud, the Dark Mark burning into her eyes just as it had the first time she'd seen it light up the night sky.   


She must have swayed on her feet because Maureen and Elena suddenly flanked her, both with wands drawn. It was only when she felt the Hellene's grip on her elbow that she realized that she, too, had instinctively drawn her wand, even as her mind had went numb with shock.   


"All right, there, 'Mione?" Wyatt questioned, from behind her. He glanced in concern over at Maureen, who had went as white as a sheet, green eyes huge against her bloodless face.   


She nodded but kept her eyes glued on the horrible apparition as she came to a terrible realization. As if icy hands slid down her spine, she shuddered.   


"It's over Aldersgate!"   
  


***

  
  


By the time that Hermione had reached her dormitory, it was swarming with Aurors and other Ministry officials, while many of her dorm mates stood huddled in their nightclothes on the sidewalk outside of the stately building. A handful of the officials were interviewing the distressed students, while others filed in and out of the entrance of the apartment building, all looking extremely busy. She could hear Elena and Maureen whispering frantically behind her but she was busily searching the scene with her eyes, attempting to understand what had happened in greater detail.   


The sight of a huge orange cat clawing and hissing at the Auror who held onto him tightly finally caught her attention. "Crookshanks!" she screeched, flying through the milling people, intercepting the burly Auror where he stood a few meters away from the building.   


When her familiar saw her, he let out a long, high-pitched cry, his nails sinking farther into the man's arms. She called out to him again before Auror finally noticed her.   


Out of breath when she finally reached him, Hermione held out her arms in time for Crookshanks to make a desperate lunge from the stranger's arms and into hers. He purred loudly as she hugged him against her chest, the icy feeling driven away by his warmth.   


"Is this monster yours?" the Auror demanded to know.   


She nodded, still busy snuggling against her cat. "Yes, he is."   


"Then is your room on the fifth floor, apartment D?" he inquired.   


Confused, Hermione answered. "Yes, it is. Is that where you found him?"   


The Auror's hard expression melted into a stony mask, still tinged with sadness. "Come with me," he ordered, although his voice was softer than it had been. "You can even bring that monster of yours."   


"I take it you aren't a cat person?" Hermione asked before she realized that the comment had escaped her lips. Crookshanks had arranged himself around her neck like furry scarf, his claws happily shredding at her shamrock-speckled muffler.   


"That's not a cat," he informed her. "That's something else entirely. But, no, I'm not a cat person." He led her into the building to where a bald man dressed in wrinkled gray robes stood in the foyer. He wasn't much taller than she with blood-shot eyes and thick lips which were set in a grim line.   


"Mr. O'Malley," he called out to the short, grave-looking man. "This girl says her room is 5-D. Her name is…"   


"Hermione Granger," she supplied shakily, completely baffled by the sudden turn of events.   


Mr. O'Malley fixed his eyes upon her face. "Do ye have a room mate, Miss Granger?" he asked in a heavy Irish brogue.   


"Yes, of course I do, Giselle…oh….no…Giselle!"   


Everything suddenly settled neatly into place as the haze of shock which had settled over her dissipated and her quick mind began to function properly once more. She stepped forward as if to shoulder past the Irishman to climb the stairs, and the Auror moved to restrain her but O'Malley shook his head. "Let 'er go, Shannon," he told him.   


Taking the steps two at a time, Hermione dashed up to the fifth floor and then shoved through the gaggle of officials who were loitering in her doorway. Crookshanks uncurled from around her neck and leapt gracefully from her shoulder to her bed as she gaped at the pitiful sight of her room mate huddled on the floor.   


Giselle had always been proud of her natural beauty, which she had chose to accent with fashionable attire and expensive beauty regimes…but not even what Nature had given her was evident in the drawn, gruesome expression frozen on her face. Her glorious dark hair was matted and wild, her clothes soiled and torn. She lay on her side, arms wrapped around her legs in a sick semblance of a fetal position, but none of that was what pained Hermione. It was the dull, utterly empty look in Giselle's once-lively eyes which made her want to weep.   


She knelt down to touch gentle fingers to the girl's chilly forehead, while her other hand gripped her wand so tightly that her knuckles turned white. "Giselle?" she murmured to her quietly, hoping for a response. "Giselle, it's me, Hermione. Speak to me, dear."   


"It'll do you no good," a kind voice spoke from behind her as a reassuring hand held onto her shoulder. "She's gone."   


Hermione rose from her knees and faced her Medicinal Potions professor, Dr. Sedgefield. "What are you doing here, Professor?"   


"They contacted me because I'm the residence staff-head," she explained softly, eyes lingering on the broken girl who lay in death on the floor. "I'm so sorry, Hermione."   


She shook her head as if to reject sympathy. "We…we weren't close," she revealed. "In fact, she seemed to hate me, but…I…"   


"Miss Granger?" Hermione hadn't realized that Mr. O'Malley was standing at her professor's side. When she looked over at him, he continued. "I'm Angus O'Malley, with the Irish Ministry of Magic. Miss Boisvert was your room mate, yea?"   


"Ye….sss." The world was beginning to become hazy once more, Hermione's vision swimming as she struggled to concentrate on the wizard's words.   


"We've tried to contact her parents at their home in Orlèans, but they weren't there. Do ye know where they might be?"   


She tried to remember what Giselle had said to her that morning about her parents. She had said that she would be joining them in… "Nice," she whispered hoarsely. "I think her parents are in Nice."   


He nodded and signaled at one of the Aurors who loitered in the doorway. "You, there. Try for the Boisverts in Nice."   


O'Malley turned his blood-shot eyes back to Hermione. "Now, Miss Granger, I know that this will be difficult, but I've got to ask ye…do you think that the Deatheaters --"   


"Sir!" Shannon, the Auror, interrupted nervously. "You know what the Ministry said! They're aren't any Deatheaters any more! It's just a rumor, people trying to--"   


"Shut your damned mouth, Shannon!" O'Malley roared, glaring at the younger man. "Don't repeat those lies to _me_! If ye are so keen t' believe the Ministry, you go and try to feed them words to _her_ parents when ye tell them that their daughter was murdered by people who don't exist! Cold comfort, that'll be fer 'em, with their daughter just as dead!"   


Dead.  


It was the first time anyone had spoken the cold truth: Giselle, the room mate she had disliked so greatly, was dead. The hazy whiteness veiled Hermione's eyes even more strongly, even as O'Malley ended his tirade. He spoke to her again. "Miss Granger, I need you to try to answer me questions, all right?" She nodded dumbly. "Do you think that the Deatheaters came fer Miss Boisvert, or do ye think that they might have been here…fer ye?"   


What do you think!? she wanted to shout into his face. Who would the Deatheaters really come to kill -- the cultured daughter of a pureblooded French wizard or the _mudblood_ best friend of Harry Potter? Of course they had been after her!   


Guilt crashed down on her shoulders so tangibly strong that Hermione gasped for breath, choking back a guttural noise which she would have released as a scream had she not lost the ability to move her muscles in order to form and expel sound.   


With heart-wrenching clarity, she finally understood how Harry had felt after the Tri-Wizard tournament with visions of Cedric's dead eyes haunting his dreams.   


Giselle's empty eyes floated to the surface of Hermione's mind.   


She dimly realized that O'Malley, Shannon and Dr. Sedgefield were watching her expectedly, waiting for her answer. An answer that she no longer had the presence of mind to deliver. Everything was becoming whiter by the moment, like she was slowly being drowned in fluffy white cotton which pushed against the edge of her vision as it swallowed her into its emptiness….  


The emptiness of Giselle's dark, dark eyes…  


"I think I can answer any questions you may have, Angus." The voice which echoed from the door was familiar and gave Hermione a warm feeling which she never thought that she'd feel again. She couldn't quite place it in the confusion of the evening but she was grateful for its owner as she felt all attention shift away from her. A blur of dark green velvet moved toward her, the blur wrapping a comforting arm around her shaking shoulders. Another voice, just as familiar and comforting, spoke softly in her ear. "Come along, my girl. Let's get you away from these people." Aloud, the authoritative feminine voice announced. "She's in no condition to be answering any questions. I'm taking her to Hogwarts."   


Voices sounded around her, but she could no longer discern one from another, and she processed them only as a blanket of noise. How long had it been since she'd first seen the Dark Mark? It felts like hours, but it couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes, each second slowing to crawl across time, sputtering to a stop in that awful instance when she had realized that Giselle had been killed.   


And it was all her fault.   


Colors swirled around her and Hermione felt her stomach lurch before everything came to a sudden standstill. As she blinked and tried to focus her eyes, she discerned the vague outline of her former school in the distance, the castle jutting against the star-specked sky. "Hogwarts?"   


"That is where I said that I was taking you, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall's voice was firm but sympathetic. "Come now, you need some rest. Let Albus deal with Angus -- they've been friends for ages."   


The Transfiguration teacher kept her arm firmly around the girl's shoulders, guiding her weary student toward the school gates. Neither of them said anything, not that words would have helped the situation. The silence and crisp air of the snowy wilderness held the whiteness at bay from Hermione's mind. She felt the oblivion ebb away, only to be replaced by profound sadness and nerve-numbing fatigue.   


Once they reached the school's gates, a sense of relief claimed her as the iron clattered shut behind them, locking her firmly within the near-impregnable grounds which had become like her second home. She craved rest and her body was being forceful about its demand -- she stumbled for the third time since she'd entered the Hogwarts grounds, her legs refusing to obey her simple command to walk. McGonagall was having trouble supporting her, Hermione's slight weight deadened by fatigue.   


"I'm sorry," she apologized through gritted teeth, willing her legs to move correctly.   


A slight movement in the shadows of the courtyard grabbed Hermione's attention away from her non-reactive limbs. The darkness seem to rustle in the way that the fine cloth used in robes might, and she watched as a small section of the penumbra created by the castle's height pulled away from the mass, gliding toward them. Dark, dark eyes soon became distinguishable, sallow skin strangely luminous under the half-moon's light.   


"Severus," McGonagall breathed in obvious relief, still trying to keep her former student upright. "I'm very glad to see you there."   


"The headmaster asked me to wait. Can I be of some service, Minerva?"   


The elder witch nodded. "Miss Granger seems to be having a bit of trouble."   


"No, I'm fine," she stammered unconvincingly, pulling away from the Animagus's support. "I'll be fine, now." She valiantly took a unaided step forward, only to have her knees buckle under the effort. Hermione would have crumpled to the ground if Snape had not moved with surprising speed and unsurprising grace to her side, hefting the girl's limp form up into his arms, one beneath her knees and the other supporting her back.   


"As usual, Miss Granger, your Gryffindor stupidity and impulsive bouts of pseudo-heroism rear their ugly heads at precisely the wrong moment." His deep, silken voice washed over her frayed nerves like salve, bringing such a feeling of safety, of _home_ that she was left shaken by it, fighting tears which she refused to shed.   


Instead, she rewarded him for his comment with a sad hint of an appreciative smile, her teary eyes drowsy with the soothing comfort his presence fostered. "Thanks," she managed to whisper before she laid her head against his shoulder and gave into the darkness of exhaustion.   
  
  


***

  
  


Guilt was an emotion with which Severus Snape was quite familiar. In fact, he'd come to view it almost as one did the presence of an old, steadfast acquaintance who offered nothing if not a sense of normality by his existence.  


Guilt – or remorse, or regret – reminded Snape that he had once made a terrible mistake, although the proof of said mistake was still evident on his left arm. But the guilt also reminded him that he'd been forgiven for it and been given the chance to correct it. For guilt, more than any other emotion of which humans are possible, lends itself toward penance in some form or another.   


Since guilt was his stalwart companion, Snape found it strangely unsettling to have other emotions outweighing it in him that night.   


Most strange of all, those emotions were relief and a gratitude directed toward the cosmos, in the way Muggles might thank God whenever life's events have occurred in their favor.   


Snape was relieved that it had been Giselle Boisvert in residence at the Aldersgate dormitory room when the Deatheaters had arrived and he thanked whatever grace it had been which had kept Hermione Granger away from her home earlier that evening.   


In the dark and light view of the world to which most prescribed, Snape knew that it was wrong to be thankful for anyone's death, no matter how wicked or deserving they might have been. In his opinion, however, such either/or positions were reserved for the Dumbledores and Potters of the world. He, by virtue of his own nature, had always lived in the grays, in the shadows cast by the light, an illusory sort of darkness. Perhaps it was Slytherin of him to see his dubious morals in such a fashion. Or, perhaps, it was simply more pragmatic.   


In his own twisted mind, he was completely justified in his relief at Miss Boisvert's untimely demise, although, he also knew that his relief should have made him feel even more guilt.   


It did not, however.   


Snape reserved little sympathy for people who tried to damage what he considered important to him, and even less for persons who helped in the propagation of Voldemort's reign of terror over the wizarding world.   


Giselle Boisvert had done both.   


It had been on _her_ information that Lucius Malfoy had decided to make his move against Hermione on that particular evening, assured by the young Frenchwoman -- who entertained aspirations to greatness – that the girl would have been home when they arrived. When Hermione had not returned as expected, Giselle had been forced to suffer the punishment of one who failed Lucius Malfoy and, by extension, the Dark Lord.   


Lucius had murdered the girl for misinformation; Severus had been willing to watch her die because she had betrayed Hermione, prepared to deliver the young woman into the hands of her worst enemies in order to gain favor and power.   


Even if he could have prevented her death, Snape knew that he would not have. And there was no guilt in the realization.   


Sitting in the dim glow of his fire, Snape dwelled little on the implications of what he felt. Self-analysis was only useful to him to the extent which it aided the professor in his attempts to justify his own actions satisfactorily. Once that same self-analysis exposed doubt or weakness, it became superfluous.   


So, Snape wasted no time contemplating what it truly meant that he had feared so much for Hermione's safety, or when he had been so relieved at her narrow escape. He refused to dwell on the comfort it had brought him to know that she was sound asleep within the safety of Hogwarts Castle.   


But he himself would sleep more peacefully than he would have otherwise, knowing that one less of Voldemort's willing accomplices still breathed on the earth.   


And, surprising for a man whose life seemed mired in it, there would be no guilt.   
  
  


***

  
  


The wintry morning dawned clear and cold. Still caught in the throes of sound sleep, Hermione murmured incoherently as she snuggled deeper into the warmth offered by the heavy quilts of the huge bed on which she slept. She stretched languidly as she tucked her face against the down pillows, vaguely wondering why her usually toasty room suddenly had that damp coldness in the air which she had always associated with old castles and stone.   


Her curiosity got the better of her and she reluctantly sat up, realizing that she was not in her dormitory, but in a unfamiliar bedroom, one which was elaborately decorated in medieval style. The quilts slid away from her body as she moved, and a sudden chill swept over her, causing her to shiver and reach over for the blankets. The only place she knew of such décor was at Hogwarts, she thought sleepily, yawning.   


Finally, the events of the previous night came rushing over her just as the chilly air of the room had. She _was_ at Hogwarts: Professor McGonagall had brought her there after…after Giselle had been murdered by Deatheaters.   


How much she wished she could forget the last twenty-four hours.   


Hermione spied her wand lying on the desk opposite the resplendent bed in which she had slept, its gleaming wooden surface otherwise empty except for a scrap of parchment underneath her wand. She quickly retrieved both the wand and the parchment, her eyes scanning the lines of elegant script.   


The note commanded her to make use of the facilities of the room -- namely the bathroom -- as well as the clothes in the wardrobe in order to freshen up. Once that had been accomplished, she was to find her way to Professor McGonagall's office. It was signed by the Transfiguration instructor but a postscript followed, informing her that several of her classmates at Trinity were concerned for her and that they would appreciate contact at the earliest convenience.   


Hermione winced at the postscript; she could easily imagine the state in which Maureen and Elena must have been after she had disappeared into the building with Auror Shannon, never to reappear again. She promised herself to owl them as soon as possible.   


Deciding that McGonagall's suggestion of a bath would do her some good, Hermione filled the marble claw-foot tub in the exquisite bathroom with hot water and the sweet-smelling salts she'd found waiting there. Hermione sank luxuriously into the steaming bubble-filled water, breathing in the soothing scent of lavender which wafted upwards on the wisps of steam. Once she had thoroughly cleaned her long hair, she leaned her head against the back of the tub, allowing the hot water to wash away her stress and anxiety. She could feel herself pleasantly escaping the horrific events of the past day as she relaxed in a long bath.   


She knew that she was very lucky to be alive; if Maureen and Elena had not cajoled her into staying with them at the pub, then she would have certainly been home at the time of the attack. And she would have met the same end as Giselle. Or perhaps, something even more sinister, considering who she was. Hermione suppressed a shiver at what might have happened to her if she had fell into the clutches of someone like Lucius Malfoy. She recalled the looks he'd given her at graduation and found herself thanking Providence for giving the friends which had kept her out late on a Friday night.   


She could not suppress the guilt she felt, however. Just as her friends had saved her, she had been the reason why Giselle had died. The girl's death had been decided only because she had shared a dorm room with the wrong person.   


And Hermione was most certainly ashamed of her own reaction. Wasn't she supposed to be brave and strong? Instead of exhibiting that famed Gryffindor nature, she had crumbled upon the truth, so stunned by Giselle's death that rational thought fled her mind. Everything after Dr. Sedgefield had spoken to her was a blurry jumble -- she remembered Professor McGonagall bringing her to Hogwarts and, by that time, she hadn't even be able to walk. She _did_ remember vividly when Snape had caught her from falling when she'd attempted to walk on her own. She could only assume that he had carried her inside, since she couldn't recall anything after that point. How could she expect to help people in times of need when she was unable to handle critical situations herself?   


As if to forcibly expel all the questions in her mind, Hermione shook her head vigorously, sending sprays of water across the room from the wet tendrils of her hair. She couldn't let herself drown in such thoughts. It would be of little use to her to do so.   


She briskly dried herself and donned a fluffy dressing gown before exploring the wardrobe as the letter had instructed. She was surprised to find her own clothes neatly hung within the old oak cabinet, but she was nonetheless glad for the familiarity. Choosing to wear a long woolen skirt and sweater under her good winter robes, she dried her unmanageable hair with a quick spell and left it to its own devices, to snarl and tangle its way down her back. When Hermione reasoned that she looked presentable, she collected her wand and stepped into the silent corridor.   


Judging by the sunlight pouring through the high, paned windows which dotted the hall's expanse, Hermione guessed the time to be closer to afternoon than morning. She glanced down the hall one way, then other. Having never been in that particular wing, she was not certain of which way to travel in order to reach McGonagall's office. She'd taken a few tentative steps in one direction when she heard a sound which amazed her.   


"Mrraow?"   


Her head whipped around to see a huge bandy-legged cat strolling in her direction, his tail high in the air.   


"Crookshanks?" she questioned in astonishment, kneeling to pet the cat as he rubbed his squashed whiskered face against her legs. Once she was on her knees, he seized the advantage and craned his neck to rub his cheek against her chin. "How on earth did you get here?"   


"He was quite adamant that I was not leaving Ireland without him," came Dumbledore's voice from the direction from which Crookshanks had appeared, the elder wizard slowly approaching her. "He was quite intent on joining his mistress." He smiled at her benignly. "Good day, Miss Granger."   


"Professor Dumbledore," she began, straightening while her cat transferred his affections to the hem of the headmaster's robes. "I don't know how to thank you. Last night --"   


He held up his hand to silence her. "There's no need," he assured her. "It is reward enough that you escaped injury in the attack. And it gave me a reason to visit Angus. We so rarely see one another these days."   


At that, she chuckled.   


"Now, I suspect that you are on your way to Professor McGonagall's office?" he inquired. When she nodded, he continued. "There is no need for that, now that I found you. How would you like to accompany me to the Great Hall? I'm sure that you're famished."   


With so few students remaining for the holidays, the Great Hall was virtually empty for the noon meal, with few of the professors even attending. Other than herself and the headmaster, Hermione counted only Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Sprout seated at the staff table.   


The meal was enjoyable, although the instructors seemed reserved around her. More correctly, they were trying to be considerate and respectful of what had happened to her. And what was going to happen.   


The task to bear the bad news about Hermione's immediate future was left to her former Head of House. "I am been in touch with your professors at Trinity, Miss Granger," she announced in the midst of the meal.   


Hermione glanced up. "Yes?"   


"Professor Dumbledore -- and others -- have expressed concerns about your safety once you return to Ireland. Due to those concerns and the nature of what has happened…it has been decided that you should remain here for the remainder of your school semester, before returning home."   


"But…what about exams?"   


The professor looked solemn. "You've been exempt from them, my dear. None of your professors felt that you needed to take them, anyway."   


Before she could express her disappointment, the headmaster patted Hermione's hand. "There, there, Miss Granger," he soothed her, eyes twinkling. "I'm certain that we can find you _something_ to work on while you are here."   


There was a quality about his tone which informed her that he did not necessarily mean school work.   


After lunch, Hermione settled into the library with a handful of parchment and a borrowed quill to write a stack of letters. First, notes to Maureen, Elena and Wyatt, assuring them of her safety and asking the girls to finish the job of packing up her trunks which someone -- Dumbledore had been vague on that point -- would collect for her in a few days. Then, she wrote to Harry and Ron, reassuring them of the same, along with recounting her version of the events which they had already heard from Professor Dumbledore. Along with those were a few quick scribbles for Ginny and Mrs. Weasley.   


The letter to her mother was more difficult -- Hermione had to phrase each line carefully as to not arouse Caroline's maternal fear or indignation while not lying to her or trying to diminish the dangerous nature of the events. A precarious balance had to be found and the task took Hermione the better part of an hour to do. When she was satisfied, she delivered the letters to the owlery, then trekked through the winding corridors, intent to return to the library, consciously forcing herself _not_ to think about Giselle, or Deatheaters or the guilt which hammered at her.   


For some reason, her feet had other plans. Instead of returning to the warm library, Hermione trailed across the snow-covered lawn of one of the enclosed courtyards, the same one where she had sat with Dumbledore in the spring of her seventh year. She pulled her dark, winter cloak more tightly around her body, burying her face in the muffler wound around her neck, the white one decorated with lively green shamrocks which Seamus Finnegan had given her as a graduation present.   


"I did not expect to see you traipsing through the snow this afternoon, Miss Granger," Snape's voice rang out across the stillness of the empty courtyard.   


Hermione paused, whirling to observe a dark figure glide across the white snow, in such perfect contrast that it struck her as poetic. "Nor did I expect to see you here, Professor," she replied.   


"Well, I have retained continual control over my mental and physical faculties -- unlike some of us," he reminded her coolly.   


Suddenly reminded of how she'd felt when he'd held her the previous night, she shot back. "I think that your mental control might be questionable, given some of your more violent outbursts. The Muggles have the perfect solution for people such as yourself."   


"Do they now?" he challenged.   


She nodded. "Anger management classes."   


A tug at his wryly twisted lips was his version of a smile. "Touché, Miss Granger."   


She smiled too-sweetly at him before looking away. Her brown eyes lingered on the frozen fountain, the mirth fading from her face.   


Snape noticed the hint of sadness and guilt which lay buried in her face, plain to anyone as accustomed to seeing it as he. His own expression darkened thoughtfully. "Do you intend to spend the duration of your stay here standing outside in the freezing wind?" he asked her briskly, his tone harsher than he'd intended. When she glanced sharply at him, he added in his silkiest tone, "Or would you rather have the chance to prove that you can be marginally…useful?"   


"And how would I do that?" she wanted to know.   


He made a sweeping gesture with one arm, causing his full sleeve to fan dramatically against the snowy landscape. Hermione was once again struck by the poetry of the vision. "Madame Pomfrey is in need of various medicinal potions," he explained offhandedly. "I, of course, could make them myself but…since the opportunity has arisen, perhaps you could produce the required medicines."   


"Why, Professor, are you asking for my help?" she exclaimed with feigned coquettishness.   


"No, Miss Granger. I'm asking you to prove to me that you're worthy of the time which I have wasted on correspondence with you." There was an unreadable gleam in his dark eyes, but Hermione thought it something akin to amusement. She crossed her arms, pretending to consider his proposition, her eyes cast heavenward. His eyes narrowed. "Quickly, now. I don't have the day to wait for your answer."   


"In that case…" she waltzed past him, heading toward the building. When he did not follow, she glanced back at him. "Lead on, Professor. I'd hate for you to think your ever so _precious_ time has been wasted."   


With two long strides, he was at her side. "I don't appreciate insolence from students, young lady."   


"Good thing I'm no longer your student then, isn't it?" she said smugly, her upturned face mere inches from his.   


That unreadable gleam sparked once more in his eyes as he regarded her, keenly observing her glowing eyes, cold-reddened cheeks and long, riotous hair. He surprised her by taking firm hold of her arm just above her elbow, his slender hand capably strong as he tugged her to follow him. "Come along, Miss Granger."   


Hermione ruthlessly ignored the tingle which shot through her because of his hand on her arm, torn between basking in his unusual vicinity or protesting against his controlling behavior. Sighing, she allowed herself to be led without complaint into the drafty halls of the boarding school, down into the chilly damp regions of the dungeons.   


"Where are you taking me?" she asked suspiciously when he escorted her through the classroom where she had once attended Potions class into his office which lay beyond. Snape dropped his hold on her arm and reached for his wand from somewhere within the folds of his dark robes.   


"_I_ have much higher standards in space and equipment than the classroom laboratory," he informed her smoothly. "I assumed -- perhaps erroneously -- that you would as well."   


She thought of the sophisticated facilities she had utilized at Trinity and how poorly Hogwarts Potions classroom compared. "No, you are correct."   


He nodded. "I am allowing you to work in my private laboratory space. See that you don't destroy anything."   


She glared at him as he flicked his wand at a far wall which shimmered until it revealed an ancient-looking door above which was a stylistic carving of a slithering serpent, also of mottled green serpentine. He opened the heavy door with another grand sweep of his wand-arm , then motioned impatiently for her to enter.   


Hermione had expected a smaller version of the Potions classroom, dark and claustrophobic in appearance with work surfaces stained and marred by years of use. Instead, she found an immaculate room, longer than it was wide, with a huge cabinet commanding one of the shorter walls while one long wall was lined completely in floor-to-ceiling shelves. There were no windows in the dungeon room, but the room was sufficiently bright, which Hermione attributed to some kind of incantation. The various workspaces were smooth and devoid of any marks, and there were variety in the table tops: she noticed that at least one top was marble, while another was made of dark metal. Yet another was of simple wood.   


"Wait here," he ordered her, still standing in the laboratory's threshold. "I have to find the list of needed potions. Do try to behave yourself until I return." Before she could reply, the door shut behind him as he left.   


With time on her hands, Hermione idly perused the wall of shelves, each tier crammed with the fascinating paraphernalia befitting a potions master's private collection. Books filled much of the space, some with spines creased with use while others looked as if they had never been opened. She only recognized a fraction of the titles and she itched to pluck any of the unfamiliar dozens to read but she refrained ruefully. Interspersed amid the volumes were ancient-looking scientific instruments, cauldrons and wax-sealed bottles containing viscous solutions which she couldn't identify.   


On one of the higher shelves, a flash of rainbow light caught Hermione's attention and directed it to a small glass figure perched there. Standing only about 20 cm tall, the figure of a classically-dressed woman had been molded out of iridescent glass, its translucent quality reminding her of a pearl. In her tiny glass hands, the figure held an orb of lustrous gold, shined to reflect the artificial light brightly. The figurine's presence on the shelf surprised her; it was hardly what one would expect to find in a laboratory and it was certainly…un-Snape-like. Unable to resist, Hermione reached out to touch the tips of her fingers against the smooth, pearly line of the figure's draped robe.   


"I thought that I specified that you were to behave yourself."   


Startled by Snape's voice, Hermione jumped guiltily, quickly withdrawing her hand. "I -- I'm sorry," she stammered apologetically. "I didn't…I didn't mean any harm. I--"   


"Calm yourself. There's no harm done," he assured her, his tone devoid of its usual harshness. Snape laid the small bundles he carried on the marble work surface, then looked pointedly at the small crystalline figure as he circled the table. "It's very beautiful, is it not?"   


She nodded her agreement. "Who is she?"   


"You don't know?"   


She shook her head.   


He snorted in disbelief. "Miracles never cease. Miss Granger admits that there's something she doesn't know ."   


"I don't know everything," she protested.   


"A pity you didn't _know_ that when you were still a student." Snape ran his hand through his dark hair as he studied the glass woman. "Still, I'm not surprised that you didn't recognize it. It's called the Idol of Mnemosyne. And she, of course, is Mnemosyne. You do know who she is, do you not?"   


"The personification and goddess of memory for the ancient Greeks," she supplied dutifully. "She was the mother of the Muses."   


"Yes, exactly," he nodded, gently turning the figure so that its profile faced them. From the new angle, Hermione could see the craftsmanship of the piece, the classic S-curve to its shape which spoke of the fluid Hellenistic school of sculpture. "This little figure is a traditional alchemist's statue, a ritual decoration in his laboratory. The early Egyptian alchemists refined the art of glass-making, particularly the technique for making faux pearls. She is a symbol of accomplishment as well as a reminder of what alchemists must remember above all else."   


"Which is?"   


His eyes moved away from idol to Hermione's contemplative upturned face as she examined the small figure. "It commemorates two things: that the ultimate goal of the discipline was perfection…mentally, physically and spiritually. And also, that one's thoughts must be as pure as the gold in Mnemosyne's hands if that goal is to be reached."   


"I wonder if Nicholas Flamel had one? If anyone attained such the goal, it would have been him," Hermione grinned. "It's a very lovely piece. Although, I would not have expected you to be sentimental enough to purchase one for your private workroom."   


"I didn't," he explained. "She was -- a gift."   


Something about the way he communicated that last tidbit of information suddenly made Hermione uncomfortable. Clearing her throat, she motioned toward the bundles on the worktable. "I'm sorry to wasted your time on that. Shall we begin on those potions?"   
  
  


*****

  
  


As efficient as Snape was within the settings of a classroom, Hermione found him to be even more so within the confines of his personal workroom. Although he still moved with the natural grace to which she had become accustomed during her years at Hogwarts, she noticed that he was more relaxed and less dramatic in his movements, as if the intimidating demeanor he had projected to his students had slipped away. As he opened the bundles -- new ingredients -- and commanded his new assistant to her tasks, there was a new easiness to his air, with much of the studied cruelty lost from his words.   


She chastised herself for spending so much of her time watching him.   


In an attempt to thwart her roaming mind which seemed intent to catalogue every move Snape made over the course of the afternoon, Hermione stringently applied her concentration to the process of mixing a topical healing salve which was especially effective in soothing burns from magically-created fires.   


While her mind no longer wandered into thoughts of Snape, her single-minded attention to healing salves was slowly eroded by errant thoughts which had begun with her Potions class at Trinity, then had drifted to Dr. Sedgefield before settling on the sad events of the previous evening which had culminated in Giselle's death.   


_It's all my fault!_ the irrational part of her mind cried. _Poor Giselle! If only I had went home like I said I would. Maybe I could have helped her…_  


A second voice, a vicious little nag of an inner voice, joined the first. _You, help her?_ it taunted. _You couldn't even handle the fact that she was dead! What were you going to do against a room full of Deatheaters?_   


"Miss Granger…Miss Granger? Miss Granger! Hermione!"   


She looked up at him with wide eyes as if she had just sensed his presence in the room with her. "Yes?" Her voice seemed hoarse and raspy to her own ears but Snape only heard the melancholy in it. She hadn't realized that her thoughts had manifested themselves into hitched breathing or a slight shake which permeated her whole form, as if she suffered from a perpetual chill.   


"What ails you, girl?" His question was more like a demand, but its militant edge provoked her into a truthful answer without thought.   


Hermione carefully laid aside the knife with which she had been cutting the spiny aloe leaves into long, thin strips, closing her eyes as if in defeat. "It's all my fault," she told him baldly.   


He raised his eyebrow in surprise at her response, but merely asked. "What exactly is your fault?"   


"Giselle's death." No mincing with words; she relayed the thoughts which plagued her in clear, concise language. "If it hadn't been for me, she wouldn't have died."   


Snape's face darkened, but not for any reason which Hermione understood. _He_ knew the truth of how the girl had betrayed her roommate to the Deatheaters, dying only because of her own actions. He had hoped to keep silent to Hermione about the Boisvert girl's real loyalties, but he would not watch her suffer needlessly under the delusion that she was to blame.   


Standing across the workbench from her, he laid his palms flat against the surface. "You cannot blame yourself for her death," he told her. "It was not your fault in any way. The blame can be shared in numerous ways but none of them offer any share to you."   


"How can you say--"   


"Silence!" he barked, pinning her with his dark, savage eyes. She froze and fell silent, her own eyes looking as if she were the proverbial startled doe. "Miss Granger, you are supposed to be a very intelligent creature. Have you not wondered _why_ last night was chosen for the attack?"   


"I…no."   


"Did anyone know where you were supposed to be?"   


"Giselle wanted to know if I planned on being in the room. I told her I would but I stayed out later with some friends…" she trailed off as she caught his meaning.   


"Exactly," he nodded in answer to her horrified expression. "Miss Boisvert was most certainly not an innocent victim. She had made a bargain: you in exchange for a chance to gain the Dark Lord's favor. She died because you were not in the room as promised. It was her own stupid fault."   


"I had no idea," breathed Hermione, slowly reaching for the knife so that she could complete her task. The shakiness which Snape had observed was subsiding and he was heartened by the flash of anger he had seen in her eyes -- it, more than any other emotion, would keep the guilt under control. "I knew she didn't like me, but…I just never expected that."   


"Undoubtedly, that was part of her plan," he commented, returning to his own work. Silence blanketed the pair as they worked on the potions, but Snape could still sense from the diffident expression on her face that something else was still gnawing at her.   


"Anything else you'd like to discuss, Miss Granger?" he asked of her as he dropped the dried herbs into his frothing cauldron, carefully stirring the boiling mixture.   


Hermione hesitated, as if she wished not to answer, but she finally responded. "My reaction…it was not very good. I was scared and…and distraught by seeing Giselle on the floor like that…I can barely remember much of what happened," she confessed abysmally.   


He didn't immediately answer; instead, he made certain that his potion was progressing correctly, then lowered the flame beneath the cauldron. "You feel as if you handled the situation badly," he surmised.   


She nodded, still slicing the fleshy plant. "Yes, that's it. I feel as if…how can I help others as a mediwitch if I can't handle myself in such situations? How will I ever survive this war when I'm not ready for it?"   


"No one is ever prepared for war," Snape heard himself saying, as Dumbledore had once told him. "But I have seen you live through ordeals which many adults wizards never dream of experiencing. Despite whatever doubts you have developed, you _are_ strong enough to see this through to the end. If anything, you are plagued by something worse -- a righteous determination to do the right thing."   


She noticed the humor in his words and grinned, almost unwillingly. "Let me guess…is that part of my 'Gryffindor stupidity and impulsive bouts of pseudo-heroism?' You seem fond of saying that."   


"It is precisely part of that," he agreed, weaving around the workbenches as he returned a phial to his supply cabinet. Instead of circling to his original place, he leaned against Hermione's side of the workbench, watching over her shoulder as she stirred the aloe burn salve she was preparing. "Rest assured, Miss Granger. You will make a fine mediwitch."   


"You think so?" She leaned over to watch the thin curls of aloe disappear into the milky liquid.   


"Everyone seems to think so," he evaded, watching her slowly stir the ingredients in her cauldron.   


The young woman glanced up at him, a impish glow in her eyes as she inquired, "But what about _you_, Professor?"   


"I see no reason to believe otherwise."   


She laughed quietly at his answer, relieved by his grudgingly admitted belief in her abilities. She peered more intently into the bubbling cauldron to hide the pink which stained her cheeks and betrayed just how much his words had meant to her.   


Hermione was surprised a moment later when she felt his slender fingers brushing back the wild strands of hair which framed one side of her face, gently tucking the disheveled locks behind her ear.   


When she up at him questioningly, he gestured toward her cauldron. "It would be of little intrinsic value to the potion to have your hair dipped into it."   


"Of course."   
  
  


***

  
  
  
_Author's notes_: I've finally made it through part 7! Let's see...Maureen is partially based on the character of the same name from the musical _Rent_; the songs she butchered are, of course, _Gold Dust Woman_ (Fleetwood Mac) and _Blinded by the Light_ (one version by Bruce Springsteen). Everyone who knew that Giselle was evil, raise your hand! In the original sketch I planned, Snape didn't tell Hermione about Giselle's real nature, but I believe in divine justice, at least in works of fiction...Hermione's shock-like symptoms after discovering that Giselle is dead is caused by CIS (Critical Incident Stress) which is something from which emergency personnel like EMTs sometimes suffer.   


The Idol of Mnemosyne is a figment of my overactive imagination, but alchemists _did_ refine glass-blowing and fake pearl-making techniques. Hellenistic sculpture is the type of sculpture developed through a fusion between classical Greek styles and Eastern styles. It was developed after Alexander the Great conquered half the world circa 323 BCE.   


There was more Snape/Hermione interaction in this part and I'm slowly building toward more, really I am. I write my parts by subject, so lengths vary. This one part was roughly 10,000 words, which is 1/4 of the whole story to date. I have lots more stuff planned, don't worry. Lastly, a quick view of what to expect in the next chapter: She who is sometimes called Carolina and Christmas with the Grangers!   


If you have any other questions, don't hestitate to email me at regann@kalyka.net  


As always, please review and let me know what you think. Good, bad or ugly...I appreciate feedback. 


	8. Think about it before you go

**Heart over mind : Part VIII  
Think about it before you go   
**

  


***

  


Despite her initial disappointment at being forced to leave the university earlier than scheduled, Hermione greatly enjoyed her two-week sabbatical at Hogwarts, where most of her mornings and afternoons were spent cloistered with Snape in his private laboratory. Although they soon finished with Madame Pomfrey's list of needed medicines, the Professor found ample reasons for his former student to continue with assisting him; during the fortnight, Hermione not only brewed various and sundry potions, she helped him catalogue his inventory of herbs and also complete a thorough inspection of his extensive collection of equipment.   


She held a nagging suspicion that the headmaster had a great deal to do with her continued residence in the dungeons and she was silently appreciative for his efforts on her behalf.   


For his part, Snape was once again surprised by how pleasant a companion Miss Granger could be. Not only was she an intelligent and able assistant, he admitted to himself that he found their conversations to be not only amusing but engaging as well. While he was most certainly accustomed to spending hours alone within the confines of his private workroom, the presence of another human working alongside him was not as tedious an experience as he had found it to be in the past. Though he would never admit it, he enjoyed having Hermione with him every day.   


"You can't mean that," protested Hermione one late afternoon, glancing down at him from the perch on the oak ladder high above the workroom's floor. They were systematically cleaning the small space, a task which had to be done manually according to the Professor, since the use of magic in such an enclosed space filled with such volatile ingredients as he kept for such an evasive purpose was especially dangerous.   


"Oh, but I do, Miss Granger," he assured her, dark eyes never leaving the shelf which he was inspecting, a stack of books in his arms. "It's not as if I'm the only one."   


At that, she snorted, the forceful discharge of air stirring up the layer of dust which coated the very top shelf where she was working. Suddenly surrounded in a cloud of dust-filled air, Hermione sneezed several times, her head violently recoiling with the action.   


"All right up there, Miss Granger?"   


The sarcasm -- and amusement -- in his voice irritated her as much as the dust had. She ignored his question. "Oh, you're not the only one," she continued, as if she'd never sneezed. "But I wouldn't admit to _anyone_ that I held the same opinion as someone like Lucius Malfoy, no matter _what_ the question."   


"That's a very dangerous statement," Snape informed her matter-of-factly as he stacked the tomes neatly on the clean marble workbench.   


"How so?" she asked as she enthusiastically attacked the dust-covered shelf with her cleaner-soaked cloth.   


"Do you know believe that the wizarding community must work together in order to assure the best possible future?" inquired he in one of his silkiest tones, his rich baritone conjuring the image of dark velvet into her mind.   


Hermione had learned to distrust that voice, even as she loved to hear it slide across her ears. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, pausing to look at him. "Yes," she answered cautiously.   


"If I were to ask Lucius the same question, his answer would be the same as yours," he explained. "The two of you simply have differing views of what is meant by the phrase 'best possible future.'"   


She snorted again, but there was no dust to assault her because of the action. "I should say we do," she muttered darkly. "Very bloody different views."   


"But you did agree with him," Snape pointed out, glancing up at her as he spoke. "Despite that inane comment you made only a minute earlier."   


"That's not what I meant!"   


"Ah, perhaps. But it _is_ what you said."   


"That's twisted Slytherin logic," she complained as she scrubbed vigorously at the wood.   


Snape carefully set aside an old Potions volume which needed to have its bind repaired. "It is logic, nonetheless."   


"You are just trying to deter me from the topic at hand," Hermione accused him, shaking her rag at him.   


He proved unmoved at her display, only observing her with a raised eyebrow before turning his back on her with a dramatic sweep of his black robes. "And what was the topic at hand?"   


"Muggle society. I cannot believe that there is _nothing_ about Muggle society that you like."   


"That is not what you asked me earlier," he sighed. "You asked if there is anything of Muggle origin that I prefer over its magical equivalent. There is not."   


"I still can't believe that, either," remarked she, pausing to brush her hair away from her face. "Don't misunderstand me, I love the wizarding world. But every so often, there _are_ things I miss about the Muggle environment. Like electricity."   


"Lumos spells and enchanted candles work even more efficiently than electricity," he reminded her as he added another old book to the stack which begged repair. "From what I've read and heard, there are regular breakdowns in service."   


"I know, but it's just not the same," Hermione said, struggling to explain herself clearly. "What else do I miss…hmmm…my computer. Oh, and ink pens! What I wouldn't give for a ballpoint pen when I've got a twenty-foot essay to write. And telephones -- fireplaces can be so messy."   


"As enlightening as this is, I find my opinion unchanged."   


After twenty minutes' of trying to find something Muggle which Snape would admit -- even grudgingly -- was as adequate as its magical counterpart, Hermione threw her hands up in frustration. "I give up," she declared crossly. She clamored down the ladder and slid it further along the line of shelves before climbing up the rungs once again, equipped with a new solvent-soaked cleaning cloth. "It's a simple case of snobbish ethnocentricity, I suppose."   


Snape, who was seated at one of the workspaces and polishing an old copper cauldron, smirked at her secretly, his face hidden from her by his task. "Went to school to that learn big word, didn't you?"   


She made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. "Well, that's what it is," she insisted. "You refusing to admit that anything Muggle is as good as anything magical."   


The professor, having polished the cauldron until it shone with its original coppery luster, stood. "I am more inclined to believe that this whole useless conversation is rather more a result of your ethnocentricity than mine. You _are_ the one who is so compelled to regale me with the superiority of your mother culture."   


She opened her mouth to retort but quickly closed it, satisfied with glaring at him. Snape replaced with clean cauldron on one of the lower shelves just behind Hermione's ladder, then laid one of his hands on the rung which was level with his eyes as he looked up at her. "Come along. It's time for dinner. They'll be more than enough time for you to finish this tomorrow."   


Still grumbling under her breath, she carefully retraced her way down the ladder rungs. "Yes, because I so enjoy dusting."   
  
  


***

  
  


Over the fortnight more than Muggle ingenuity was discussed and debated in the conversations between Snape and Hermione . The topics were varied although many of them originally began as something academic or scholarly; however, between Snape's natural sarcasm and Hermione's quick wit, dialogue flowed and changed constantly to fit the mood of its contributors. A great expanse of subjects were touched upon, ranging from Potions and her classes at Trinity, to travel and music, to her friends -- despite Snape's antipathy to them -- and the books she had been reading in her spare time. When she'd discovered that the pureblooded instructor was well-versed in most Muggle literature, she'd accused him of deception.   


"You told me that you didn't possess a 'literary soul,' as you called it," she protested when he asked her why she seemed so astonished that he had read and appreciated her current novel of choice, Thomas Hardy's _Tess of the d'Ubervilles._  


"Yes, I did. But I never said that I was so lowbrow as to not have read the fundamental classics of literature."   


"You think of Hardy as fundamental? He's a Muggle, you know."   


"Yes, but he's English. I overlook one for the other."   


Snape, in turn, had been surprised on another occasion when Hermione had expressed a better-than-average knowledge of Chianti. He had been idly discussing a bottle of the red wine which he had been given whose taste he had found wanting, despite his usual preference for its sturdy dry flavor. She had observed that its origins might have been other than the central Chianti producing region, _Classico_, and therefore the cause of its inferiority.   


"And what do you know about good wine?" he snorted, eyebrow raised in palpable disbelief.   


She had given him a very mischievous smile, her eyes dancing. "Enough to get by," she laughed.   


Like the letters which they had written over the course of her first term at university, the dialogues did not always remain nice on the surface -- but there was a deepening affinity between them, despite the mocking comments and barbed interjections which characterized their conversations.   


They both enjoyed it immensely.   


Meal times during her impromptu stay were also very congenial, although Hermione had been surprised at the unusual arrangements. Instead of having to sit with the students as she had expected, Hermione had been invited to dine daily at the staff table with the professors. Although many of the instructors rarely joined them, she was certain to be seated with Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. Snape was also consistently present since she usually left his private workroom to attend all of the meals except breakfast. When Dumbledore secretly asked him about his changed habit, Snape had pointed out that although he was accustomed to missing communal meals during the holidays, the Potions professor could hardly cite a feasible reason for missing them when Hermione was with him constantly and could attest that nothing hindered his attendance.   


His long-winded response only caused the headmaster's eyes to twinkle even more brightly than usual, reminding the younger wizard of a child with a delicious secret.   


The only change which had occurred at Hogwarts since her departure the previous year had been another change in Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers; the curse on the job seemed to continue, as no one had ever managed to hold the positions two consecutive years. Needed on a different mission now that Harry no longer needed a close confidant to be present on campus, Remus Lupin had gracefully bequeathed the position to another professor, although Hermione had not had the chance to meet her since Professor Barfrost had traveled to Norway for the Christmas holiday. She missed the werewolf's familiar presence on the Hogwarts grounds, particularly the comfort she had found in him as a counselor of sorts. It was the only vacancy from the staff table which she actually regretted.   


The conversations at the Head table were more subdued than the lively and often biting exchanges she'd shared with Snape, but Hermione delighted in them nonetheless. Since Snape spent most of the meal silent or in quiet discourse with the headmaster, she spent a good deal of the time speaking with Professor McGonagall, discussing much of her life and studies at Trinity in the way which one talked of things with an aunt, the same kind easiness in their colloquies which reminded Hermione how fond she had become of her former Head of House over the course of her education at Hogwarts. In many ways, she reflected one evening, Minerva McGonagall was somewhat like a surrogate mother to her, supporting her in times when her adored but Muggle mother was unable to do so.   


As much as she loved Hogwarts and enjoyed the companionship of her former professors, Hermione desperately missed her family as well. Although she had never been one to suffer from homesickness after her first year at boarding school, her insecure emotional reactions to the events leading to Gisele's death had left her with a deep longing for the comforting security which could only be fulfilled by being at home, surrounded by her mother and father. Nowhere, not even Hogwarts, could instill the same perception of safety, despite the fact that it was truly more safe. It was same childish urge when had driven a six-year-old little girl into her parents' bedroom on stormy nights, her small body quaking in fear from the lightning and thunder of the storm which raged outside. Only snuggled into the blankets, wrapped tightly in her mother's arms, had that little girl felt safe. Irrationally, the adult Hermione still felt a vestige of that same need.   


When the day came, Hermione was ready to go home.  
  
  


***

  
  


With most of her luggage having been sent straight to her house from Trinity, Hermione had little other than one small valise to carry with her on her trip from Hogwarts to her home. Despite her reprieve from the sanctity of Hogwarts, Dumbledore still worried about her safety and had expressed his concerns to her the prior evening, insisting that she allow Professor McGonagall to accompany her as far as Diagon Alley where she was to meet her grandparents -- who would be arriving from abroad -- in Muggle London, so that they could travel to the Grangers' house together.   


Faced with journeys through areas of both large wizarding and Muggle populations, Hermione took special care in choosing her apparel.   


It was strange, she mused as she brushed her long hair that morning, how important and telling her vestments actually were about who she was. To someone -- like Hermione -- to whom outward appearances mattered little, the idea seemed laughable. _Clothes_ of all the inconsequential things could reflect so much on their wearer, her position and her difficulties.   


Amusedly, she saw the truth in it that morning as she dressed to leave the school. Closest to her skin, she wore her Muggle clothing: 20th-century-style undergarments which looked little like that worn by pureblood women, under a ribbed charcoal-gray dress made of synthetic washable fabric and decorated by nothing other than a high collar. While it was more formal than she liked to dress, it had been a gift from her mother, sent to her by owl-post along with the instructions, _Please wear something nice ( I mean this dress) when you meet your grandparents at the airport. Otherwise, your nonna will never let me hear the end of it the entire time she's visiting._ It was sleek and clingy, with a long skirt which only allowed movement because of a slit in one side. It was completely a non-magical garment.   


Over the dress, she wore the rust-colored robes which she had bought for the new year at Trinity, nice enough to be worn when she attended the concerts hosted by Elena's orchestral class. Heavy and smothering, the robes had been purchased in Diagon Alley for a nice sum of galleons, fashionably styled by wizarding standards.   


When the robes were topped by her good winter cloak -- still black with silver fastenings -- and her warm muffler -- scarlet and gold since Crookshanks had shredded the shamrock one -- Hermione would easily blend in with the denizens of witches and wizards who would be crowding the narrow streets of Diagon Alley shopping for the Christmas season. But the robes and cloak would be reduced and stashed away in her valise before she exited the Leaky Cauldron, replaced by the tailored black coat she'd received as a present two Christmases earlier.   


Wryly, she noted that only her scarf, thick dark stockings and black Victorian-inspired high-heeled boots would successfully make the transition from magical to Muggle.   


_Not Muggle-enough for the Muggles but not quite magical-enough for the wizards_, she observed sourly of her clothing, with the nagging belief that the same might be said of her. Her innate magical abilities were simply unheard of by the society in which she had lived her first eleven years while the logic on which she thrived was similarly scarce in the world in which she studied. Hermione had become thoroughly familiar with all aspects of magical life during the years she had spent at Hogwarts; she had excelled in her magical school subjects, grasping the concepts of Charms and Transfiguration with the same ease she had once had in learning her multiplication tables. Outwardly, she was as comfortable as any pureblooded witch, her wand the integral extension of her body which magical children understood it to be.   


But in times of serious stress, she thought like a Muggle. She reached for pens and not quills, telephones instead of Floo systems. Once, she had been distracted enough to ask Harry if he had had any postage stamps! Although those instances were rare, it reflected that her formative years had been spent in Muggle society, a sphere of influence where witches were only thought to exist within the pages of storybooks.   


And _magical_ still meant so much more to her than it did to anyone raised completely among wizards. The word possessed a special quality in Muggle English that no pureblood could ever comprehend of a term used so ordinarily in their world. It suggested something mystical, elusive and unique.   


It still rang that way in her head sometimes. When she had first seen the glorious green hills of the Irish countryside, she had called them magical. Wyatt had looked confused, puzzled by her statement. But Maureen had nodded, answering with a look that said _I understand what you mean._  


She watched herself in the tall looking-glass as she twisted her untamed hair into one strict plait, a hairstyle of which she knew her grandmother would approve. It had been in her mother's postscript: _And for the love of Jesus -- do something with your hair!_  


Hermione briefly wondered if every Muggle-born felt as she did, wracked with a strange sense of unreality as they moved from one world into another. She knew very few of her fellow Muggleborns intimately enough to ask such a question, particularly since she felt that her ambiguous discomfort was a weakness to be conquered and subdued. She _was_ a witch and she had as much right as any half-blood or pureblood to be a part of wizarding society.   


So why did she sometimes feel as if she were an outsider?   


Realizing that Professor McGonagall was waiting for her in her office, Hermione hastily grabbed her cloak and valise, leaving behind the philosophical questions of being both Muggle and witch in the richly-decorated room of the gothic castle. The questions and doubts weren't new ones, and they certainly weren't ones which she had planned to resolve in the few minutes it took her to dress.   


After all, it was Christmas and she was delighted to be going home to see her parents, thrilled that her grandparents were coming to spend the holidays with them. Such dark thoughts had no place to be in her mind when she had so much to which look forward.   


Remembering the remainder of her mother's orders about her attire, she paused to secure the small pendant on its chain around her neck, burying the lavaliere beneath the folds of her scarf. _Oh, and please wear that necklace she gave you last visit. It'll make her day._  


Giving herself one last glance in the gilded mirror, she threw the cloak over her shoulders as she rushed out the door. In her wake, the enchanted candles immediately dimmed their wicks and the fire lowered in reaction to the room's emptiness.   


_Be careful and don't forget to wear your coat. Or cloak -- you know what I mean.  
Have a great time in London and don't worry about a thing. Mi manchi, cara. See you soon.  
Much love,  
Mama_  
  
  


***

  
  


_Author's Notes_: I'm sorry, I lied about this chapter being the Christmas chapter. That'll actually be the next chapter. This part is rather a "bridge" part, a bit short but heavy on the narration and character introspection. Ah, well, at least it's done. I appreciate all reviews, be they positive, negative or neutral as long as they are _constructive_ and _polite_. A continued thanks to everyone who has been reviewing faithfully, and an extra big thanks to those of you who have been emailing me. Sometimes, your lovely responses are the only reason I continue with this monstrosity. 


	9. Some Christmas Angel

**Heart over mind : Part IX  
Some Christmas Angel   
**

  


***

  


Rosalia Morazzano was sixty-five years old and, unlike most persons of her advanced age, she recalled the events of her life with little regret. Perhaps her strong Catholic faith was responsible for the surprising ease with which Rosalia could remember both the good and bad, for she had lived through events which would have given others reasons for remorse or bitterness without either touching her. Or perhaps it was simply that she'd found that when the good and bad were measured on the cosmic balance of time, the good far outweighed the bad. Against the hardships of her youth -- growing up under Mussolini and Fascism, the Second World War and the slow reconstruction of her nation -- Rosalia compared the happiness she'd found with her husband Vincenzo, the delight she enjoyed from raising her two daughters, and the satisfaction she gained from managing their small Tuscan winery, finding all of the joy to be worth the price she paid in sorrow.   


It was her one wish that her children would be able to say the same when they reached their sixth decade, content with their choices as they looked toward the seventh.   


Despite the years and its challenges, Rosalia's dark eyes still held the fiery spark which spoke of her passionate personality, though many of the heavy strands of her long hair had long since silvered. She still stood straight and proud, much as her husband did, both of them too strong to have their backs bent by something as inconsequential as age. Vincenzo was almost a head taller than his wife, his skin perpetually darkened by the sun from his years at work in the fields, deep lines left in his face from both exposure and a natural tendency to laughter. She was Sicilian, her blood a complicated mixture of Greek, Latin and Arab strains which left her a woman of brilliance and temper while her husband's extravagant Florentine nature was softened by the influence of his Milanese great-grandmother on three generations of Morazzano men.   


From them, her maternal grandparents, Hermione Granger had inherited much.   


"Nonna!" Hermione waved emphatically when she spotted her grandparents in the crowds of the cluttered airport as they waited near the Alitalia terminal. At the sound of her voice, Rosalia looked up, smiling her warm, grandmotherly smile as she watched her only grandchild striding purposely through the milling masses.   


"Hermione!" As soon as she was within reach, Rosalia grabbed her granddaughter into a fierce hug, murmuring in rapid Italian. Hermione returned the affectionate greeting, patiently allowing the older woman to gently push her away so that she could inspect her. After a moment, she nodded slowly, as if satisfied. "You're looking very well," she stated, smiling. "I see that university agrees with you."   


"It's so wonderful to see both of you again," Hermione quickly announced before hugging her grandfather. "It's been too long."   


Vincenzo ruffled her hair affectionately, despite its confined style. "Let us go. They'll be time for chat once we've gotten the hired car."   


As she chatted excitedly with her beautiful grandmother, the young woman easily pushed the lingering memories of Gisele's death firmly from her thoughts, even as the wizarding world itself seem to slide into a far corner of her mind, although the small valise she carried contained not only her own magical relics, but a shopping bag filled with presents suitable for her witch and wizard friends. When she and Professor McGonagall had arrived early in Diagon Alley, the Animagus had insisted that she chaperone her former student as she quickly finished her Christmas purchasing. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Hermione had felt safer knowing that McGonagall was there with her.   


Thinking of Christmas presents reminded Hermione of a letter which she had sent to her grandmother. "Did you receive my last letter?" she asked, projecting her voice forward from her place in the rented car's backseat.   


Her grandmother nodded, twisting in the front seat of the hired sedan in order to see the young woman. "I did," she acknowledged. "I must admit, it was a bit odd to find a large owl sitting in my kitchen, waiting for me one morning! You witches and wizards have a most ingenious postal service. Much speedier than anything we've got, I'd bet."   


"It has its good points," the young witch admitted. "Did you…bring the merchandise?"   


Another nod. "Yes, and I chose very well, if I say so myself. Although, your nonno was a bit put out that I chose so well. I think he wanted to keep it for himself."   


"Do you really mind?" Hermione questioned her grandfather who had remained silent, his eyes focused on the road. "I mean, if you'd rather I didn't, I'm sure that I can find something else."   


"_Non si preoccupi, cara. Il piacere e' mio_," he assured her gruffly, eyes never wavering on the road. "I just hope that this person is worthy of such a fine gift."   


"And I'm sure he is, since Hermione has such good taste and judgment. Like her nonna," she added, winking.   


The young woman leaned back in her seat, idly staring at the landscape which sped by her eyes in streaks of gray and green. The weather was dreary and hardly festive, the threat of rain hanging over the land in the form of low clouds which swirled ominously about the sky. The weather, however, had little effect on Hermione's mood as she allowed the excitement and delight at seeing her grandparents to settle over her. More than her grandparents' visit, she was happy to be going home.   


When the hired car rolled to a halt in the drive of a brick two-story house situated on a quiet cul-de-sac, she quickly leapt from the car once she was satisfied that her grandparents needed no aid with their luggage, and her own small valise was forgotten as she bounded into her house, leaving the door ajar in her wake.   


"Mama?" she called out as she peeked into sitting room from the entrance hall, searching the immaculate room for a sign of her mother. Sighing, she bustled through the sitting room and into the dining room. "Mama!"   


"For heavens' sake, Hermione!" She heard her mother's admonishment as she entered the kitchen where Caroline Granger stood at the sink, her hands submerged in hot, soapy water. On seeing her daughter, she quickly wiped them dry on the front of her faded jeans, her own face brightened by a smile similar to the one which Hermione wore. As if she were suddenly shy, the girl hung back, lingering uncertainly by the end of the long, white counter. Caroline, arms akimbo, raised an eyebrow at her daughter's uncharacteristic behavior. "Well?" she asked impatiently. "After all that noise, don't I get a hug?"   


Looking much like she had on her first trip home from Hogwarts, the young woman threw her arms around her mother, tightly hugging Caroline as if she were afraid to loosen her grip. "Oh, cara," Carolina crooned, running a hand through her daughter's tangled hair which had refused to remain neat in its strict braid. "Something the matter?"   


"I missed you, Mama," she told her sincerely, pulling away as she composed herself.   


"I missed you as well," Caroline admitted. "Where are your grandparents?"   


Hermione motioned toward the door. "They're coming."   


The dentist slung an arm over her daughter's shoulder. "Come along, then, my girl. Let's go help that crazy old woman before she starts bellowing for us."   


Laughing, she allowed herself to be led toward the entrance hall where her grandparents were waiting.   


Yes, she was happy to be home.   
  
  


***

  
  


Like her mother, Carolina Morazzano Granger was known not only for her intelligence but for her volatile temper as well. Her husband, William, had always teased her that it was her Italian blood which made her so quick to anger; William, on the other hand, was rarely angry and even more rarely lost his temper. While Caroline would shout, curse and -- when she was truly furious -- revert into doing both in Italian, Will Granger remained calm and unruffled in most situations, his unflappable demeanor acting as his wife's saving grace as well as her one of her greatest irritations. In her opinion, it was unnatural that he never seemed to lose his composure.   


She had spent the first six years of her life in Italy, until her parents had decided to immigrate to Britain in search of something better than what they had had in their homeland. For she and her younger sister, Sophia, more opportunities had been opened by the migration; but her parents, strong and hardworking, had never been very happy so far north, so far away from their home. When Carolina had entered university and Sophia had finished her basic schooling, the Morazzanos had returned to Italy to settle on the small patch of land which Vincenzo had inherited from a childless uncle. While Sophia chose to roam Europe, following her vague dreams of fame and fortune, her older sister had earned a degree in Organic Chemistry, then continued on to become a dental surgeon. When she met and married William, Carolina had firmly planted her roots in England's soil, rearing her daughter in the land of her husband's family.   


Carolina Granger walked the fine line between being both Italian and British, never quite comfortable in either role; Hermione, like her mother, lived precariously as both witch and Muggle, determined to succeed in both worlds.   


After the initial euphoria of being home once again finally dissipated, Hermione settled comfortably into her usual home routine, but one which included her nonna in almost every activity. While her parents still had to work and her grandfather spent his days visiting old friends and business associates, Hermione and Rosalia had all day at their disposal, crisp morning to chilly dusk with which to do what they pleased. The witch loved spending the time in the familiar surroundings of her hometown, and her grandmother was willing to help her with any task she needed to complete.   


On the first morning, Hermione carefully unpacked her trunks sent from her rooms at Trinity as well as the small valise of items she'd used while at Hogwarts. With careful precision, she neatly arranged books and bottles on the high shelves which lined her bedroom, meticulously organizing the souvenirs she had required over her first term in Ireland. Her clothes were hung neatly in her closet, a quick charm murmured over the robes to clean them before they were stashed away while the Muggle items were dropped into the hamper. Now repaired, the shamrock-covered muffler lay folded in a bureau drawer, safely tucked away from her cat's destructive claws. Crookshanks, who had been sent to her home via Floo from Hogwarts, lay across her tidy bed, sleeping soundly with his bottlebrush tail flicking lazily as if he dreamed of the action. Satisfied, Hermione gathered her bags of Christmas gifts which were in need of similar organization and hurried downstairs to find her grandmother.   


She absently noted that the long lines of shelves in her small room reminded her of the ones which she'd helped Snape clean and rearrange in his private workroom.   


With the afternoon light filtering dreamily through bisnonna's lacy curtains hung proudly in the spacious dining room, the young woman scattered her small stacks of gifts to be wrapped across the shiny polished maple tabletop, haphazardly dropping pools of color on the buttery wood. When Hermione returned to the dining room after having raided her mother's stash of wrapping paper and supplies, Rosalia was sitting at the head of the table, looking every inch the matriarch with her silver-black hair fastidiously coiled into a heavy knot of twisting braids at the nape of her neck. She slid her eyes over the array of knickknacks strewn before her then glanced up at her granddaughter whose arms were full of shiny rolls of wrapping paper.   


"Hello, Nonna," Hermione greeted, a little out of breath. She dropped her armload onto the table, then produced a pair of shears from her jeans pocket.   


"Afternoon, dear." Rosalia looked pointedly at the wand jutting from Hermione's other jeans pocket. "Isn't there an easier way for you to do this?"   


"Yes," she admitted, surveying the scattered menagerie before her. "But I prefer to do it myself."   


"Good girl," her grandmother nodded approvingly. "That was one of your parents' fears about you being a witch, you know. That you would always look to magic for the easy way."   


She thought of her teeth and grinned to display them. "Well, not always. But sometimes magic is…helpful."   


As Hermione chose a seat to her grandmother's right, the older woman pointed toward a cluster of particularly strange items which she knew instinctively had to be magical. "Those for your friends?"   


"And a few old professors," she answered, picking up a small brown box which held a small brooch she'd purchased for Professor McGonagall.   


"How do you plan to deliver them before Christmas?" Rosalia asked, clearly curious about the magical world. "You don't have an owl."   


"When I was in Diagon Alley yesterday, I stopped by the owl post office there," she explained, as she began to sort through all the gifts she needed to wrap. "I've arranged for two owls to deliver some of them. The ones for Harry, Ron and Ginny…I'm going to visit the Burrow early on Christmas Eve."   


Her grandmother's dark eyes suddenly lit up with mischief. "And what about the package I've got?"   


"It's going to Hogwarts," she told her, trying to remain matter-of-fact. The last thing Hermione wanted was her inquisitive and formidable grandmother nosing around about Snape. "It's for a former professor who has been very kind to me this last term."   


"He must have been _very_ kind," Rosalia remarked slyly.   


"He's been corresponding with me, helping me with my university lab work. He didn't have to -- it's always been on his own time."   


"This professor wouldn't happen to be young and handsome, would he?" asked the matriarch. "Perhaps that Professor Lupin you always mention?"   


"Nonna!" she chided, giggling at the idea of Remus Lupin being the secret infatuation, although admitting to herself that he'd be a better candidate for it than the Potions Master, despite his lycanthropy. "What ever gave you such an idea as that?"   


Rosalia sifted through the tangled ball of ribbon which had been packed away with the wrapping paper. "Just teasing you," she laughed. "Although, your mama…I distinctly remember Carolina fancying one of her teachers. Chemistry, I believe it was. A younger professor…Irish. Donovan, I think his name. Later, she confessed that she almost failed her first exam because she spent so much time watching him."   


"No!"   


The grandmother nodded. "She did. But that was a very long time ago."   


Hermione smiled at the anecdote, taking care to remember the tale. "What about you, Nonna?" inquired she conversationally as she precisely trimmed some red-foil paper with which to wrap McGonagall's gift. "Do you have any great love affairs in your past that you've been hiding from me?"   


"I only had eyes for your grandfather," she stated emphatically, a nostalgic smile softening her aristocratic features. "I was sixteen years old when I met him. He was twenty-one." Her smile twisted wryly. "And he told my parents and me that he was only eighteen. It was the only way they'd let him court me."   


"What a sly devil," she observed, winding a small golden ribbon around the now-wrapped box. Frowning at the untied ribbon, she brandished her wand, tapping the ribbon lightly with its tip. The gold ribbon obligingly arranged itself into a perfect bow.   


Rosalia arched an eyebrow at the display. "Helpful…I see."   


Hermione tried to look innocent. "When did you discover his real age?"   


"_After_ we were married," she continued, examining wrapped gift appraisingly, twirling it in her hands. "I asked your bisnonna Carolina what I should buy for his twentieth birthday." She laid the gift aside. "She told me that I was two years too late."   


"I can't believe that!" The witch tapped her wand against another red-foiled box to add a ribbon to it, along with a tag reading "For Harry, Love Hermione," before reaching for another present. "How did you ever forgive him?"   


The older woman waved her hand dismissively, shrugging. "It was all very romantic then, cara. I was in love."   


"I don't see how that was very romantic," Hermione told her, eyes downcast as she worked. "I mean, _lying_ to you for almost a year!"   


"I see that romanticism is something you did not inherit from me," Rosalia said fondly, patting her granddaughter's hand affectionately. "It seems instead that you've got your mother's pragmatism."   


She looked up sharply at the odd way her grandmother stressed the last two words of her statement. "I sense that there's a criticism in there somewhere."   


"Not at all," she assured her. "Just pointing out how much like your mother you are."   


It was Hermione's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Now I know there was."   


The pleasant laughter of her grandmother rang out, making her look much younger than her sixty-five years. "You know I love my Carolina…even if she is a prudish killjoy of the first order."   


"Nonna!"   
  
  


***

Made extremely curious by her recent first contact with the magical system of owl post, Rosalia insisted on being present when the hired owls arrived to collect Hermione's mail the next morning, rising early in order to do so.   


"Mama, really," Caroline admonished, as she helped herself to a light breakfast before leaving for her office. "They're just owls."   


"So you say," she returned, helping herself to a cup of coffee, a beverage enjoyed by Caroline but not her husband. "But I think they're fascinating. And I want to know everything I can about my granddaughter's life, even the owl post."   


"I remember you were interested, too, when we first discovered that Hermione was a witch," Will pointed out to his wife. His statement earned him a glare from Carolina and a satisfied smirk from his mother-in-law.   


"But they're _just owls_, Carolina. Whatever did you find interesting?" her mother intoned, amused.   


Saying nothing, the dentist shot an exasperated look at her daughter behind her own mother's back; Hermione was so amused that she had to hide her smile behind her own cup of tea. It seemed as if, no matter what the occasion, there was always something about which the mother-daughter pair could bicker, although there was rarely any heat to the words.   


The days passed in a haze of errands and tasks, each day flowing rapidly into the next. Suddenly, as if all the time she had spent at home had passed in a minute, it was the morning of Christmas Eve and the Granger-Morazzano household was overflowing with activity. Carolina and Rosalia were engaged in a battle of wills over domain -- namely, the kitchen. Wisely, Vincenzo and Will had retreated to the study where they could animatedly discuss the current issues, everything from the year's harvest of Malvasia grapes to British politics while their wives discussed preparations for the Christmas Eve dinner. In honor of the visiting Italians, they had planned a traditional seafood feast.   


"Maybe I should check on them?" Hermione asked her father nervously from her own cozy spot in the study. "They've been at it for a while."   


Will patted his daughter on the shoulder. "Believe me, honey, that's the worst thing you could do. They'll just drag you into the middle."   


"Your father is right, cara," Vincenzo added sagely. "Take this old man's advice and leave them be."   


She acquiesced, nodding as she stood. "Fine, then. But I think I'm going to head over to the Burrow to give Harry and Ron their presents."   


"Don't stay too long," her father advised. "Or else your mother will be after _you_. Give my best to the Weasleys."   


"I will," she promised as she opened the door.   


"Oh -- there's an old broken radio out in the garage," he told her. "Perhaps you'd like to box it up and take it to Arthur? He seems to enjoy such things."   


Hermione laughingly agreed, hearing her grandfather's questions about why anyone would want a broken radio as she headed upstairs.   
  
  


***

  
  


"Severus?"   


As the sound of Lupin's voice wafted through his office and into his private workroom, Snape couldn't help the scowl which immediately darkened his face.   


"If you're here about the Wolfsbane, Lupin, you won't need it until after New Year's so I can't understand why you're bothering me about it now."   


"That's not it at all," Remus answered, his voice no longer echoing as he appeared through the connecting door. He softly closed it shut behind him as he entered. "I've come from the headmaster."   


Snape did not look up from his cauldron. "Yes?"   


"He wanted me to express his utmost desire to see you at the staff Christmas gathering tonight," he explained, his eyes watching the mesmerizing motions of Snape's hand stirring the bright green liquid which bubbled in the cauldron.   


The Potions Master knew that 'utmost desire' translated into 'you must attend' when specified by the Headmaster. "You've delivered the message, Lupin. You may go."   


Instead of leaving, Remus rested his elbows on the clean work surface as if he were settling in for a longer visit. "I've been here a few days and this is the first time I've seen you," he observed casually. "Although, from what Professor Dumbledore tells me, you were quite…visible while Hermione was visiting."   


"Much easier to work when I don't have an overeager student tripping underfoot."   


"Of course, Severus," Remus said mildly, somehow amused by the statement. "Although I've ever really seen Hermione as a hindrance to anything. She's usually very helpful."   


"To the point of officiousness," Snape acknowledged.   


"And she's no longer a student," he continued as if Snape had not commented. The humor in his expression sobered. "How is she?"   


Snape turned his back on his companion, searching his shelves for a needed ingredient. "She is…coping," he answered haltingly, choosing his words carefully. "Although the experience was difficult for her…she will survive."   


"She's a very strong young woman," Remus agreed quietly. The silence stretched thin between them until Lupin straightened. "I'll leave you to your work, Severus. See you tonight at the party."   


"Of course." He did not bother to glance over his shoulder as he heard the door shut after the werewolf's departure. Spying the required phial, he returned to his bubbling cauldron, carefully adding a measured amount of the ochre-colored powder to the brew, then stirring vigorously.   


As much as he did not want to admit it, Snape found the stillness of his workroom to be unnerving after having Hermione there with him every day for a fortnight. While she'd been gone several days, he still half-expected to hear her voice asking him a question, or humming to herself as she did when she had worked, an unconscious habit he'd noticed in her.   


For the first time in a very long time, the silence and the solitude of his private laboratory disturbed him.   


The fact that it disturbed him only managed to add to those uneasy feelings which the silence caused, which only made him more unnerved.   


That the disturbance was triggered by the absence of the same young woman whose presence in his classroom he had cursed only a year ago made the whole situation preposterous -- and even more disturbing.   


Snape wouldn't admit that he missed her presence -- as an equal, someone with whom he could converse freely, and enjoying doing so; as someone whose mere existence in the same room he found beneficial.   


Lupin had been correct about one thing: in his mind, Hermione had become completely separate from her one-time position as his student, a process which had begun the morning he'd found her asleep at his bedside that past spring and had been completed the first day in his workroom that winter when he had unconsciously reached out to smooth her hair away from her face.   


That difference in Hermione which he had noticed during the last months of her seventh year had bloomed until there was nothing but that glorious difference left in the place of the girl he had taught for seven years.   


Snape recognized the difference but he couldn't name it, which was just as well.   


The truth of that difference would have only disturbed him.   
  
  


***

  
  


As usual, Hermione arrived at the Burrow to find it overflowing with people and abuzz with furious activity, activity which made her own busy home seem still in comparison. Harry and Ron were delighted to see her, swinging her around and crushing her in embraces tighter than the customary greeting, a kind of frantic assurance which she recognized from the way she had greeted her own mother, a byproduct of knowing how narrowly she had escaped harm only weeks before.   


Like old times, the three friends settled into the homey sitting room before the crackling fire, voices humming in the background like soothing white noise in an eerily quiet night. "Here are your Christmas gifts," she announced to the young men, placing each wrapped present on a cluttered table. "And there's one for Ginny as well. Where is she?"   


"Last minute shopping with Mum," Ron answered, eyeing the gift bearing his name. "She'll be back in a few hours."   


"I can't stay that long," Hermione admitted. "My mother will have my hide if I'm gone too long. If she doesn't, my grandmother will."   


Harry, who had grown up without a family, was always interested in other people's, including his best friend's. "How's it having your grandparents visiting?"   


"Wonderful," she reported warmly. "Although my mum and my grandmother bicker quite a bit. They both can be quite bossy but neither take it well from others."   


Harry and Ron exchanged knowing glances. "I never would have guessed," Harry joked. "It's not as if you inherited that at all."   


"Hermione? Bossy?" Ron mocked-scoffed. "Who'd have thought it?"   


"Ha, ha," she rolled her eyes. "I would think that my best friends would be nice to me on Christmas, especially since they haven't seen me in _months_."   


"Hey, you know we love you," Harry protested.   


"Especially since you brought us presents," added Ron, eyes glinting with mischief.   


"Boys!"   


It was exactly like old times, only Auror training and university life were the topics of conversations which were interspersed with Ron's attempts to open his gift from Hermione a day early.   


"C'mon, 'Mione…"   


"No. It'll be Christmas tomorrow…you can wait."   


"What will it hurt, huh?"   


"Put it down, now, Weasley!"   


"Yes, _Mum_."   


Talk of Voldemort and Death Easters was carefully skirted, as if to mention such a topic on a festive occasion would have been a sacrilege. Hermione did not ask about Harry's scar, or if he had had any prophetic dreams, while he and Ron never once mentioned the contents of the letter she had sent them, never asking about Gisele or her protective custody at Hogwarts. It was an unspoken, tacit agreement between the trio, one which spoke to the depth of their friendships.   


Glancing down at her wristwatch, Hermione sighed as she noticed the time. "I've got to leave," she told them. "I have to get ready for early Mass."   


Harry nodded, but Ron seemed confused. "Mass? A mass of what?"   


She ruffled his brightly-colored hair good-naturedly as she gave him a goodbye hug. "It's a Muggle thing," she explained. As she pulled away, she added. "Oh, my dad sent your father a broken Muggle radio. It's in the box on the table in the kitchen."   


When Harry wrapped his arms tightly around her, he whispered softly in her ear, his voice suddenly heavy with emotion. "It _was_ good to see you."   


"Yeah, yeah," she laughed softly against his cheek as she pulled away. "I see what it takes to get a little appreciation around here."   


The dark emotions melted away as he smiled at her, a boyish grin which lit his green eyes and made him look eleven years old again. "Happy Christmas, Hermione," he wished her.   


"Happy Christmas to both of you," she returned as she prepared to Disapparate. "And give my love to Ginny and Mrs. Weasley!"   


And then she was gone, escaping once again from the magical to the Muggle world. When she appeared safely back within the confines of her own less chaotic household, Hermione quickly ran a brush through her hair and replaced her casual attire with the simple green dress that she had decided upon for Christmas Eve services at St. Anne's, not wanting to incite the wrath of either formidable matron in her household.   


As she twisted her hair up and pinned it tightly against her head, she observed that time seemed to be passing very quickly, flying and spiraling at an alarming speed even as she desperately tried to savor each moment. She knew, of course, that time could not technically speed or slow its passage, remaining at a constant measure throughout eternity; but she also knew that her perception _could_ change, which was why the happy moments she cherished with her family seem to be slipping by faster than she could experience them. Hermione hoped that the sensation of the days were passing in a dizzying rush would fade, freeing her from the delusion of lost chances which gave her manner a slight manic edge, tainting her daily interactions. She only wanted to enjoy the time spent with her family, since their times together were few and far between.   


If anything, Hermione had come to understand even more fully that time was a precious commodity -- no one was ever guaranteed to have more of it than they had already had.   
  


***

  
  


In the Muggle sense of the word, Hermione had always viewed the celebration of the Mass on Christmas as something magical, something in the ritual combined with the ambience of the candle-lit church and glowing stained glass creating a surreal and almost-unearthly atmosphere which could only be labeled as such. She briefly thought of her father all by himself at the house, and wondered if he ever regretted adopting an agnostic view of religion which made him unwilling to attend most church-related activities. Only at his wife's insistence had William attended his daughter's infant baptism where she had officially been christened as Hermione Susanna Granger -- Susanna for his deceased mother -- as well as her confirmation to the faith. Otherwise, he kept a respectful distance to any religious service.   


As she listened to the priest's words, Hermione couldn't help but let her mind wander to thoughts of Snape in a way she had not let them during her two-week stay at Hogwarts. It had been difficult as well as infinitely wonderful, working in such close quarters with him but his nearness had caused the tumultuous feelings which she harbored for him to roar into life, storming to the surface from the place where she had neatly buried them upon leaving school. Being weak in the knees was one problem -- but being weak in the knees while on a ladder was an altogether different one.   


But she had enjoyed it, particularly because there had been something different in his manner toward her; Hermione could only describe it as something akin to equality. And he believed in her, and her abilities. It was a compliment coming almost seven years late, but it had been there when she needed it. Despite the sardonic tone of his comments, he had lacked the sneering superiority which he had always used with students in the way he addressed her, the title of 'Miss Granger' not spoken as a mocking epithet but as a courtesy of…respect, perhaps? It warmed her to notice the difference, even as his voice still had the same mesmerizing effect on her, his proximity still feeling like safety in a strange way only surpassed by her mother's. It had taken every ounce of poise and self-control she possessed not to act on impulses fostered by her emotions, not to reach out and touch him when the situation had presented itself so often.   


_He knew about Gisele's bargain with Malfoy_, her mind pointed out suddenly, as if she actually needed reminding about the danger he faced working for the Light. She remembered that the solstice had been two days before and she wondered if Voldemort had called his followers together for a sabbat on the longest night of the year. If he had, she guessed that Snape would not have fared well. It caused her to shudder, recalling the state she had seen him in the night Crookshanks found him, the tremble so tangible that her mother glanced at her in concern, silently comforting her with warm hand pressed against her arm. She _was_ comforted, but her imagination did not dim in its speculation of what he might have faced.   


When she bowed her head, Hermione prayed for Harry, as she always did. But she also prayed for Snape, with an immediate fervor that her usual prayers did not have. It was fierce and entreating, a plea made to God on behalf of a man who had probably never prayed in his life, and certainly not to a Catholic divinity or any sainted personages approved by the Holy See. She prayed for him, nonetheless, out of her own innate faith, out of fear and worry and concern.   


Her heart knew that she also prayed out of love, but her mind steadfastly struggled to ignore that knowledge.   
  
  


***

  
  


It was not until the quiet stroll on Christmas Eve that Hermione was finally alone with her mother, the two companionably matching strides as they walked just out of earshot of the Morazzanos as they tread on foot from the church. The granddaughter smiled as she noticed the way her grandparents were snuggled together against the cold air, Vincenzo's arm around Rosalia as they spoke in quiet, intimate tones. So obviously in love, after a half-century of marriage. It was no wonder, she thought, that her nonna was such a romantic; her life had proven her correct on the matter.   


With her grandparents seemingly oblivious to their existence, Hermione and Caroline filled the idle minutes with unimportant chit-chat, stiltedly discussing the polite topics only slightly less shallowly than they had been at any given common meal. Slowly, however, the conversation eased and flowed, straying to topics such as Hermione's visit to Harry and Ron earlier in the day and her grandmother's famous panforte. Finally -- and hesitantly -- the pair wondered onto the subject which they'd both paradoxically wanted to discuss and ignore.   


It was in the soothing, hushed voice which she usually reserved for skittish three-year olds that Carolina carefully questioned her daughter about Giselle and the night she'd died. When she began, Hermione's response was halting and unsteady but, as she gained in confidence, her soliloquy became clearer, more firm. Before she realized it, she'd had confessed the whole incident in minute detail to her mother, speaking frankly of the fears and anxieties she had tried to keep hidden.   


Her mother wrapped an arm loosely around her in an offer of comfort, a half-embrace that was neither too confining nor too tenuous which Hermione gratefully accepted as she finished the tale. "I discovered a bit later that there was some evidence that she had been working with the Deatheaters. I feel so stupid -- I never expected that she was so…"   


"Evil?" her mother offered helpfully.   


"Ruthless," she decided, still uneasy about speaking ill of her dead classmate.   


Carolina's arm around her tightened spasmodically in a brief hug. "It's very difficult to be so useless," she confessed to her daughter. "You live in a world where you're in constant danger and there's not a damn thing I can do about it but be angry and worried --- which accomplishes nothing. I hate knowing that there are people willing to hurt my baby and I can't fight back. It's not in my nature to sit back while you're in danger. I just wish that there was something I could do to protect you."   


"I know, Mama," Hermione sighed in answer to both statements, not certain how to answer otherwise.   


She glanced over at her daughter's profile, so drawn and serious at such a young age. "I'm sorry, you know."   


"For what?"   


"For you, having to be suffer because of who your parents are, because we're aren't really part of that society."   


"Mama, really," she protested. "It's not just because I'm Muggleborn."   


"But, it's part of it, yes?" When she didn't answer, Carolina continued. "I know as well as you do that life would have been easier for you if your father and I had been wizards instead of dentists."   


"I wouldn't trade you and Dad for the world!" the witch proclaimed, almost affronted. "The same goes for Harry being my friend."   


"I know," her mother assured her, smiling sadly. "But I didn't want you to go through what I did."   


"Mama, you're talking nonsense, now."   


"No, I'm not," she began, moving her hand to brush Hermione's wild hair away from her face. "When we first came to Britain, your nonna's English was not so good for many years. We only spoke Italian at home -- we only speak English in deference to you and your father now. After a year of schooling, though, my English was strong, as good as any other child my age and no one knew that I wasn't just another British girl. Then Mama came to school one day…I'd forgotten something…" She paused, gathering the words in silence. "I was never embarrassed or ashamed of Mama because she didn't speak the language well or because she dressed differently, but I always wanted to belong, to be like everyone else. When I married your father, I decided that _you'd_ never experience that -- you'd have a proper childhood without the taunts and cruel things children can say about such things. But then, we found out you were a witch and instead, history has just repeated itself."   


"It's doesn't matter," Hermione told her fiercely, her brown eyes bright with emotion. "There is nothing wrong with being Muggleborn -- and I couldn't have asked for better parents. You've been great about everything." She was quieter as she added, "I was always a bit afraid you'd take me out of school after everything that kept happening."   


"Don't you think I wasn't tempted to do just that!" her mother informed her, laughing at the memory. "I was willing to overlook the stunts in your first year, but after the petrification, then the time-turner business, I considered it. And then, after all the drama surrounding that Tri-Wizard competition and what happened at the Quidditch Final…you're a lucky girl that I married your father. He's the only reason you weren't locked in your room and never allowed to return."   


"I'll have to remember to thank him," she teased.   


"You do that," Carolina approved, mood lightening as she gave her daughter's shoulders another squeeze. After a moment of silence, she sighed. "I should be ashamed of myself, being so melancholy on Christmas Eve. _Chi ha avuto ha avuto e chi ha dato ha dato_ but we'll have no more talk of this tonight. Alright?"   


"Alright," she nodded.   


"That's my girl," she said fondly.   


Another length of silence passed before Hermione glanced uncertainly over at her mother. Carolina's eyes were intently focused on something in front of her and well above the horizon, as if she were studying the stars strewn across the sky in order to decipher their mysteries.  


"Mama?"   


"Yes, Hermione?"   


"Thanks."   


"Now, _you're_ talking nonsense. What on earth are you thanking me for?"   


"For everything, I suppose. For being you."   


The older woman smiled. "Same to you, cara."   
  
  


***

  
  


It was of little surprise to Snape when the Headmaster decided to pay him a visit in his chambers on Christmas Day. In fact, he would have been more surprised if the opposite had transpired, as Albus had made his holiday visits a rather annoying habit over the years during which he had taught at Hogwarts. Since Snape habitually refused to attend the meals served in the Great Hall on the festive occasion, Professor Dumbledore habitually appeared at his carved serpentine door to wish him a merry holiday.   


As he sauntered into the rooms, Dumbledore found the Potions Master seated, a large book opened on the table before him as he idly flipped through the yellowed pages with feigned interest. A neat stack of brightly-wrapped gifts lay ignored at the other end of the clothed tabletop, the flickering fire of the hearth causing the foil wrappings to shine and sparkle as the flames danced around their surfaces.   


"Happy Christmas, Severus," he announced cheerfully as he lowered himself into the chair at Snape's right, his old bones creaking with the effort.   


"The same to you, of course," Snape responded politely -- or, as politely as he ever was.   


"I see you haven't even touched your presents," he observed, pointedly looking over the rim of his glasses at the untouched pile of Christmas-colored packages, the majority of which were wrapped in green although a few bright spots of red dotted the mound.   


"You're wrong about that," he corrected as he looked up from the tome, closing its pages to hold it up. "This was a gift from my cousin, Olivia."   


"And how is she?" he inquired mildly.   


"Tolerable, although I believe that living in such a warm climate has made her a bit…wild."   


"Ah, so she likes Greece," guessed the old man, his long white beard twitching as he fought a grin.   


Snape grimaced, running a hand through his dark hair, the long locks falling back as he shook his head in irritation. "So it seems. Likes it so much, in fact, that she's threatening to marry a Muggle she met on Crete and settle down with him. Although, I'm not certain that she has considered the glamour which comes with being the wife of a Zarosian goat breeder."   


Albus chuckled appreciatively. "I doubt she has."   


The younger man made a low sound which might have been laugh of his own before setting the book aside. "To what do I owe the honor of your presence?"   


"You say that as if I don't visit you every Christmas morning," he chided.   


Snape snorted before reaching for the cup of tea from which he'd been drinking. "And every year, I wonder why."   


"Why don't you open your presents?" the old man evaded innocently. "It seems inconsiderate to let them sit there while people have taken the effort to give you something."   


"Somehow, I doubt that anyone will be offended if they knew that I was awake a full four hours before I opened their gifts," Severus pointed out, his voice smooth despite its annoyed undertone.   


"I know I will be," the headmaster gently teased, smiling at the scowl on his colleague's face. "Come now, Severus, it shan't kill you to open them now. Humor a senile old man and pretend to be appreciative."   


"Senile old man, my arse," he muttered as he grudgingly stood, moving around the table to the small stack of presents. "If you're senile, then I'm pleasant."   


"I have always found you to be quite pleasant," Albus couldn't resist stating, watching Snape's scowl darken even further until he was glowering. "Now, open your presents."   


"I don't even know why I bother," he sighed, examining the pile with a critical eye. "I already know what I've got -- you all are ridiculously uncreative." Snape pointed to one of the red-wrapped boxes. "From you, and it's candy," he revealed. Then he indicated another box decorated in crimson foil. "This is from Minerva, and it's a book." A long green package was designated as being from another cousin and it was a quill set, "which he sends me every year since he makes the damn things for a living," he explained. "I have a whole cupboard full of them."   


Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head. His bright blue eyes swept over the pile, noticing an overlarge package, unusual and out-of-place in Snape's usual menagerie of Christmas gifts. "And that one?" he wanted to know, pointing to the silver-and-gold-papered rectangle. "Whose it that one from?"   


Snape frowned, deliberating before he shrugged, admitting with the gesture that he knew naught of said gift. He carefully removed the smaller boxes which had been stacked on top of it, realizing its concentrated weight as he lifted it from the table. "I suppose we'll start with this mystery item," he mused, clearly curious at its origin, made even more so by Dumbledore's obvious ignorance. "Let's just hope that it isn't dangerous or that my students haven't discovered a way to sneak their tricks past the house-elves."   


"I doubt that," Dumbledore assured him. "Perhaps you've simply gained a new friend since last you received presents. " 

Snape's dark eyes cut at Dumbledore in an expression which clearly spoke of his dubious belief in that possibility. Having resumed his original chair, the professor closely inspected the tag which graced the gift but the curving calligraphy which simply read "Prof. S. Snape" gave him little clue to its sender. Gingerly, he peeled away the layer of foil to expose a wooden crate, an odd sight which only fueled his confusion.   


As the younger man impatiently ripped away the remainder of the paper to fully reveal the wooden crate-like box, the headmaster leaned forward to catch a better glimpse, his sharp eyes noticing the faint stamps which were embedded in the wooden surface, an obvious sign that the crate was Muggle in origin.   


"Any ideas yet, Severus?"   


The receiver still eyed the box suspiciously as he admitted reluctantly, "None whatsoever." Realizing that its lid was nailed shut, Snape reached into the folds of his robes to retrieve his wand, then dealt with the obstructing slivers of metal with an impatient tap before settling the carved verge on the table at the crate's side. Still with misgivings at opening a package from an unknown source, he removed the lid to reveal a dark long-necked bottle nestled among a straw-like substance which he knew Muggles used to cushion fragile cargo.   


"Who would send you a bottle of wine?" Dumbledore wondered aloud, although his voice was less curious and more amused. "Hopefully not that cousin of yours from Norfolk, he-of-the-inferior-Chianti."   


"No, it's not from Marcus," Snape informed him when he espied a note laid within the wine crate, a thick cream-colored parchment folded in half and addressed to him. Unlike on the tag, however, he immediately recognized the neat handwriting. "Bothersome girl," he muttered under his breath as he snatched up the sheet.   


Unfolding it, the professor found a disconcerting number of lines penned in the same handwriting as the address, the letter signed with a flourished "H. Granger" at its end.   


Professor Snape,   


Although I doubt that you will agree with the sentiment, allow me to begin by wishing you a Happy Christmas and extending my hope that you have found it as enjoyable as I have thus far. In appreciation not only for your assistance during my term at Trinity but also for allowing me to assist you during my recent stay at Hogwarts -- I am certain that you have realized how much I _enjoy_ working like a house-elf -- I have sent you a very nice bottle of wine, which I'm sure that you'll find more palatable than your cousin's Chianti. While you have told me that your prefer your wines dry, I daresay that you will still enjoy the bottle I've sent, even though it's a dessert wine. For your information, it's actually _Vino Santo_ from a small but very reputable winery in Tuscany. According to the owner, this particular bottle is from the best batch of the last one-hundred years; she suggests that while it goes well with anything, she particularly likes to pair it with fresh marzolino cheese and toasted Italian bread.   


Of course, I freely admit that I offer this gift to you with an ulterior motive: before I left Hogwarts, I did a bit of research and found that while there are a number of magically-run wineries in Europe that they are very few and very specialized. In my opinion, none of these wineries' products can compare to this _Vino Santo_. I dare you to tell me that you don't prefer _this_ Muggle wine to any of its wizarding counterpart. Simply consider it the first step in overcoming your tendency toward snobbish ethnocentricity.  


As for the wine, it's heavenly and very sweet; if you can, save a glass for the headmaster -- he'll love it.  


Happy Christmas,  
  
H. Granger   
  


"Wasn't it nice of Miss Granger to think of you at the holidays?" remarked the headmaster as he glanced over the contents of the parchment which Snape had handed him. Meanwhile, the professor had removed the bottle from its cushioned box, spelling away the unsightly crate and its straw packing. Holding the dark bottle in his hands, Snape studied its cream-colored label which was decorated in an antique-looking golden filigree design while its information was stated in bold black lettering, some calligraphic and some plainly printed.   


"I'm not certain that 'nice' is the correct adjective," he answered, still deciphering the calligraphy. It read that the "small but reputable" winery was called Artemisia della Agrotera, and that the _vino santo_ was _imbottigliato all'origine_ -- estate-bottled at the vineyard in Tuscany. "Ethnocentricity, indeed -- troublesome creature."   


"Severus," Albus spoke admonishingly, although it was in jest. Then, devilishly he added, "I have faith that the house-elves could easily procure some of that marzolino cheese."   


At that, Snape smiled -- a rare, untainted grin of mischief which only hinted at the arrogant smirk he usually wore. "Well, then…let's taste this gift and see if Miss Granger's boasts of its perfection are true. Nothing like a good wine early on Christmas morning."   


Dumbledore noted the genuine affection in Snape's rich voice when he spoke of the troublesome creature who had sent him such a marvelous gift. As he watched the potions professor collect two long-stemmed wine glasses, Albus nodded approvingly to himself.   


_Well done, Miss Granger._  
  
  


***

  
  


Unlike when she had been a child, Hermione slept soundly through Christmas Eve, not stirring from her warm bed until the sun had risen high in the eastern sky. Even at that late hour of morning Crookshanks meowed his irritation at being awakened as his warm, human pillow shifted under the covers.   


"Stop scratching me, Crooks," she murmured drowsily as she sat up, stretching her arms high above her head even as her cat quickly moved to snuggle into the warm spot she had vacated. She rolled her eyes as the huge orange cat settled himself against her back to bask in the warmth she radiated, then trudged to her feet, earning another disgruntled sound from her familiar. Trying to stifle a yawn and ignore the muddled feeling which she correlated with her ravenous dining the night before, Hermione pulled on her dressing gown before sleepily descending the narrow stairs in search of another waking relative.   


She passed through the empty rooms of the living room and dining room, knowing by the strong smell of black coffee that either her mother or her grandmother was awake and had been in the kitchen to brew their favorite hot morning beverage. Tip-toeing in her slippered feet, Hermione peeked into the kitchen as if she were still a small child to see her mother standing at the counter, holding a steaming mug in one hand as she looked out of the small rectangular window into the back garden, the ground lightly dusted with snow. What made the young woman smile was that her father was there as well, standing behind Carolina with his arms wrapped loosely around her.   


_Awww,_ Hermione sighed impishly to herself. _Aren't they adorable?_  


As if the couple could feel the presence of someone encroaching on their quiet moment, they turned around, almost in tandem, to see their daughter leaning against the doorjamb, regarding them thoughtfully.   


"Good morning, sleepyhead," Will greeted her, slowly releasing his wife. "We had thought that you were going to sleep through Christmas altogether."   


"It isn't _that_ late," she protested good-naturedly, smiling as she added. "Happy Christmas!"   


"Happy Christmas to you, my girl," Carolina returned as she opened one of the high cabinets. "Would you like some coffee?"   


Hermione wrinkled her nose at the offer, but accepted the mug she was handed. "No, thank you," she answered, bypassing the bubbling percolator for the tea kettle and the tin of cinnamon tea already placed on the countertop. "I'll take tea."   


"She's got good taste," Will observed teasingly, reaching for his own teacup. "Foul stuff, that coffee. Stains your teeth something terrible, on top of it."   


"So does tea," Carolina reminded him archly before glancing over at her daughter who was retrieving the sugar from another high cabinet. "Really, Hermione…couldn't you have at least brushed your hair before coming down?" Despite the nagging content of her words, the tone was mischievous.   


The girl noticed for the first time that both of her parents were suitably dressed, while she was still in her nightgown and dressing robe, her hair no doubt a rat's nest of tangles from a night's sleep. In response, she shrugged.   


Carolina tutted disapprovingly. "March right upstairs and get dressed," she mock-ordered. "And see if your grandparents are awake -- they aren't allowed to sleep through Christmas any more than you are, signorina!"   


Hermione did as she was told, pausing on her trip back to her own bedroom to knock lightly on the guestroom door. Her grandmother answered the summons almost immediately, already dressed in a dark blue dress of rich velvet, although her long silver-black hair still fell in heavy waves past her shoulders. "We'll be along, much sooner than you," she told her briskly, giving her an appraising glance. "Off you go!"   


Not wishing to raise the ire of either her mother or her nonna, Hermione quickly dressed, donning a stiff red skirt and ruffled blouse which reminded her of something she had seen Rosalia wear in the old sepia photographs that her mother kept in leather-bound books. Despite her attire's old-fashioned style, she liked the long skirt, the ruffling sound of the taffeta which followed in her wake invoking images of the formal gowns worn by the actresses in _Masterpiece Theatre_ period dramas.   


"Ouch! Stop it, your crazy animal!" she yelped as she tried to leave her room, only to have Crookshanks pounce on her hem, obviously intrigued by the skirt's audible rustling. Hermione yanked the hem away from his playful paws, glaring at him in annoyance as he danced after the retreating line of fabric. Instead of being quelled, the orange cat simply rubbed his furry body against her legs in an affectionate gesture before sidling out of the slightly opened door.   


Shaking her head, she followed her familiar as he scrambled down the stairs, bottlebrush tail curving lazily as he glided into the living room where her parents and grandparents were assembling to open gifts, the Christmas tree twinkling in one corner of the room.   


"Whose presents are those, dear?" Rosalia asked of her granddaughter as the older woman settled next to Hermione on the plush sofa, a ringed finger pointing toward an odd arrangement of gifts in the seat of a straight-back chair set away from the other presents which circled the tree.   


"Mine," she revealed, raising an eyebrow at the faint sparkles which seemed to be emanating from the golden bow set atop one of the slimmer packages. "They're from my friends…the magical ones."   


"I see," she murmured, once again intrigued. "How did they get here? Owl-post?"   


"Some of them," she replied, noting the lumpy package which could only be her annual Weasley sweater, guessing that Hedwig had ferried her presents from the Burrow. "I think the others may come a different way -- through another magical courier." The witch did not want to spend Christmas morning explaining the concept of house-elves to her nonna, so she left her explanation at that.   


Christmas in the Granger household had never been an ostentatious affair, never a holiday filled with pricey or extravagant gifts. Carolina's much-bemoaned pragmatism coupled with the amount of money which the household spent solely on Hermione's magical education dictated that presents were practical and affordable, a trend which suited their daughter's own nature.   


After all, she had inherited her mother's pragmatism.   


From her parents, Hermione received the usual staples: clothes, school supplies, money for when she returned to school. Her father had also gave her a framed watercolor painting of the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris which he had purchased from a street vendor when he had last been in France. Carolina added to her daughter's personal library with several new books, ones which her mother felt she needed to read.   


"Camus?" questioned Hermione dubiously as she held up the thin, worn paperback from amid the heavier, hardback editions.   


"In the original French," Carolina answered, grinning. "Everyone needs a _raison d'etre_."   


"And the story is grand," Rosalia added. "Love, loss and death -- bellissima. Very romantic."   


"Mama, only you would read Camus for the plot," the dentist rolled her eyes. "And find it romantic."   


After her parents and grandparents had opened their gifts as well, her grandfather placed a small wrapped present into her hands. She quickly tore away the paper and opened the tan box which was watermarked _Firenze_. Hermione gasped softly at the slate jewelry-box she found with the tissue. It was round, only as large as her palm but it was exquisitely decorated with full yellow roses and dark leaves, all inlaid into the pale green scagliola which mimicked veined marble.   


"It's so pretty. Thank you, Nonno," stated she honestly, rising up from her seat to hug him tightly.   


"You're welcome, dear," he returned, affectionately mussing her long hair. As Hermione pulled away, he motioned to his wife. "And I believe that your nonna may have something for you to keep in there."   


Dark eyes dancing, Rosalia presented an even smaller box to her granddaughter, this one the traditional jeweler's velvet-covered case. Slowly, she pulled open the lid to find simple but lovely cross nestled against the case's silken interior, its surface decorated in an enameled floral pattern of lively colors. "Nonna…" she breathed in wonder.   


"I knew it was for you the moment you were born," her grandmother told her dramatically. "It had belonged to my mother's mother's mother. I inherited from my Zia Magdalena when she died." She waved a hand at the box. "Look at the back of the cross."   


"Mama, your tendency toward melodrama is trying."   


"Oh, hush, Carolina."   


Hermione gingerly lifted the cross from the box, then turned it over in her hands to see the smooth back which bore a simple inscription: Hermione.   


"You had it inscribed?"   


Rosalia shook her head. "That was my bisnonna's name -- Hermione. With such a connection, who else should have the necklace?"   


The young woman looked over to her mother questioningly. "Was that who I was named after?"   


"No," her father replied to the inquiry. "We named you after the character in _A Winter's Tale_."   


"Did we?" Caroline drawled archly, catching William's eyes as she continued. "I thought we named her after that David Bowie song. Oh well."   


"Really!" the girl in discussion huffed. "I can't believe you two. You've pinned me with this monstrosity of a name and you don't even know who I've named after? Why you chose it?"   


"It was all the painkillers," her mother shrugged. "My head wasn't right for three days afterwards. And your father…well, I can only imagine what he was doing."   


"Don't listen to either of them," Rosalia interrupted. "I was there as well, and your mother was not any more mad the day she named you as she is at any other time."   


"I'm only teasing you," Caroline laughed. "For what it's worth, I think you have a lovely name. You could have been christened Carolina Viviana Appolonia Sciascia Morazzano or Sophia Teresa Aminta Sciascia Morazzano, both of which are quite long, tedious and _very_ difficult to spell or pronounce. Be thankful that your father's British."   


"There is nothing wrong with your name, either," Signora Morazzano protested sharply.   


"Perhaps you should finish opening your presents, Hermione," Vincenzo suggested peaceably, wanting to diffuse any hostility for as long as possible.   


Nodding amicably with her grandfather's suggestion, Hermione skirted through the piles of discarded paper and boxes, lowering herself to kneel beside the chair piled high with magical presents. As if sensing her new position, Crookshanks slithered out of the kitchen to once again playfully swat at the hem of her skirt. "You fiend," she muttered at him, trying to deter him with a shake of the stiff fabric.   


She began with the gifts she immediately recognized, tearing away wrappings to find the standard presents from Harry (a book, _Magical Maladies: a quick reference for everyday Mediwitches_), Ron (candy, dark chocolate truffles which he knew she loved), and the usual Weasely sweater (this year, kelly green in honor of Trinity). From Ginny, who was always more varied in her gift selection, she received an atomizer made of pale blue crystal and containing a colorless liquid which smelled heavily of jasmine and mimosa blossoms along with a note: _I got this from the new imports boutique in Diagon Alley,_ it explained. _Comes from the Orient, I think. You're supposed to spray it on your pillow and it'll cause you to dream of your past lives. I don't believe it, of course, but I thought that it might amuse you._   


Setting the atomizer aside, Hermione reached for the slim parcel whose bow emitted sparks -- little surprise that it was from Dumbledore with such festive accessories. She was surprised that the gift was a blue cloth-bound book called _Illume_ -- it was an older edition of the biography on Princess Nadir'ah which she had once found in the Hogwarts library. Like Ginny's Dream-Incarnation atomizer, the headmaster's book came with a note -- short and cryptic, as his notes usually were. _You have more in common with Nadir'ah than you might think._   


Next, there was something from McGonagall: a thin gold bracelet from which hung two tiny stars. At the sight of the gift, she couldn't help but chuckle, understanding the symbolism behind the deceptively simple piece of jewelry. It was a reminder of work finished and work to come, as well as one of the secrets she shared with her strict but kind mentor.   


It was the last package, long but narrow, which confused Hermione as she reached to open it. Underneath the wrapping was a plain black box, which she quickly tried to open, curiosity piqued as she fumbled in her haste. After a moment of struggle, she was embarrassed to realize that the box did not open as she suspected; instead she sat the box flat on the floor, then lifted the whole entire cube away from the base. As she did so, something iridescent became visible, earning appreciative 'ooohs' and 'aaahs' from her relatives who watched her actions. Hermione also gasped when she saw what was now revealed, her astonishment so acute that she merely stared at the small statue, hesitantly running a finger along the sleek draped skirt. In the light of the morning, the pearlescent glow of the statue glimmered like liquid rainbow, her delicate hands supporting the softly molded orb of gold, each detail masterly represented.   


"How lovely," exclaimed her grandmother. "Whoever sent you that, Hermione?"   


Although she did not answer her grandmother's question, she knew its answer, as impossible as it seemed. She collected the slip of parchment which had fallen from the box's confines, reading the sparse lines penned elegantly with a deliberate slowness which was at odds with the quickening of her pulse, a warmth spreading over her as she read his words.   
  


Miss Granger,  


Mediwitches, like alchemists, can benefit from keeping their thoughts pure and untainted -- for alchemists, the taint is fame and greed; for healers, it is fear and uncertainty. Allow Mnemosyne to be a reminder that you need neither.   
  
SS  
  


Even if she had wanted, Hermione could not have suppressed the smile which lit her features, suddenly rivaling the heavenly statue as the most brillant thing in the room.   
  
  


***

  
  
  
_Author's Notes_: It's done, which is all that matters to me at this moment. I really felt the need to give Hermione a family and background -- I also wanted them to be both unique and supportive. I think that they would have to be both to produce a child like the one Hermione was when she entered Hogwarts...I really love her grandmother and her mother. Camus was a French existentialist who wrote books and plays and essays, most of which discuss _raison d'etre_, "a reason to exist." As for the other Christmas gifts...if there's one which seems a bit strange to you (*cough*McGonagall*cough*), don't worry; everything will be explained eventually.   


Some added information of the names: I _do_ switch back and forth between Caroline and Carolina purposely, to illustrate her "in-between" status as neither completely English or Italian; as many Italians have been known to do, Carolina anglicized her name in common address to Caroline. Also, one of her names is Appollonia, who happens to be the patron saint of dentists.   


Here is the translations for the random Italian I've peppered into the Morazzanos' speech:  
nonna - grandmother  
nonno - grandfather  
bisnonna - great-grandmother  
signora - madam; missus  
signorina - miss  
zia - aunt  
cara - an endearment; "darling"  
_Non si preoccupi. Il piacere e' mio_ - Don't worry. It was my pleasure.  
_Chi ha avuto ha avuto e chi ha dato ha dato_ - the Italian equivalent of "what's done is done."   


**NOTE**: This chapter has been edited since its original posting; I cut the church scene and tried to stream-line the chapter in order to make it less halting, however much of it remains because I love it so much.   


So, did I mention that I love reviews? Do me a favor and leave me one. Please? 


	10. Fascinated by someone else

**Heart over mind : Part X  
Fascinated by someone else   
**

  


***

  


As any student will attest, Christmas holidays rarely last as long as one might wish. Sooner than she'd expected, Hermione found herself escorting her grandparents to Heathrow for their flight to Venice and then traveling to Ireland for a new term at Trinity. She had been a little worried about the return; not that she felt her safety was in question, but she was uncertain of what to expect from her new friends and classmates. Unlike Harry or Ron, Maureen and Elena had never dealt with the constant stress of Dark vs. Light throughout their formative educational years and so Hermione feared that they would treat her differently, either in order to protect her or avoid her. Luckily, neither unhappy extreme was with what she was greeted on her return to Aldersgate, although the always emotive Maureen hugged her so tightly that she had to protest on pain of suffocation.   


"I'm just so happy to see you again!" she exclaimed good-naturedly as she released her.   


"I'm happy to see all of you too," Hermione laughed, setting the valise she carried at her feet on the hardwood floor of the old apartment building's foyer. She glanced uneasily up the stairs. "Care to walk with me up to my room?"   


"Actually," Elena grinned, fiddling with the end of her long dark braid. "That is why we are here. To show you to your new room."   


"New room?"   


Maureen nodded enthusiastically, picking up the valise as she took a few steps toward the staircase. "Dr. Sedgefield made some arrangements," she explained over her shoulder. "You're now up on the seventh floor."   


"But -- what about…"   


"She asked for volunteers to trade rooms with you," Elena supplied matter-of-factly, although her eyes glowed with quiet sympathy. "So you wouldn't have to stay in _there_."   


"Oh." Hermione was happier than she cared to admit, not having to force herself to cross the threshold of her own dormitory room and relive those still-fresh memories. "Well, now I'm on the same floor as you two."   


"Er..actually no," the American girl commented, seemingly apologetic. "You're not the only one who's done some re-arrangin'." She took another few steps, then turned to see that neither of her friends had followed her. "Come on!" she urged, stamping her foot in emphasis before sweeping up the stairs.   


In the wake of Maureen's departure, Hermione looked to Elena for answers. "You moved rooms as well?"   


She nodded. "We're on the fifth floor now."   


"_Oh_," she murmured, her eyes widening as she understood. "You didn't have to do that, you know."   


"Not a problem, Hermione," the other young woman assured her. "I mean, what are friends for?"   


Life at Trinity quickly lapsed into its usual frantic pace when classes began the next day, although the three friends -- Wyatt was busy with the guided coursework for his degree -- still spent that night in what Maureen called "slumber-party mode" in Hermione's single occupancy room. They discussed their holidays, their new classes, and many inane oddities which only seemed funny in the very early hours of the morning. What Hermione found most amusing was Maureen's argument with another vacationing witch in Crete, an arrogant Englishwoman, which almost landed the pair of them in Muggle jail in small mountain village.   


After Maureen had related the story, Elena rolled her eyes. "Now she's banned not only from Zaros, but from three neighboring villages as well."   


"What can I say? Tales of my exploits spread far and wide," she grinned.   


By the second full day of attending her demanding classes, Hermione was relieved that she had settled so easily into her old routines with little reminder of the dark events which had marked her last day at the end of the fall term. Her friends treated her no differently and her other classmates seemed unaffected by the happenings, treating her no differently -- aside from the few whispered comments. The gossip, however, was something to which she had become accustomed from being Harry Potter's friend; it took little effort for Hermione to ignore it. She was, however, premature in her estimation that life would proceed as normal for her, evidence of which surfaced the first Friday after term began when a mysterious visitor awaited her at Aldersgate as she arrived home from classes late that afternoon.   


From the night of the Deatheater attack, Hermione remembered little of an Auror Shannon other than the fact that he disliked cats in general and Crookshanks in particular. Although she knew that she had seen him several times that night, his general appearance was a hazy blur in her memory, generic and misleading. Like many of that night's events, they were all melded together in a flash of color and movement, one indistinct from the next. So, she was very surprised when she was greeted by Craig Shannon, a burly young man with striking blue eyes and a rugged face, one not handsome but pleasant to look at, at least in Maureen's whispered opinion.   


"Miss Granger?" he greeted her questionably once she was within a few paces of the stone porch where he waited, seated on the top step.   


Arms full of books and disagreeable hair tangled around her face from the wind, she nodded suspiciously in response and watched as he swiftly rose to assist her, taking the books from her as he spoke. "I'm not sure if you remember me," he began. "I'm Craig Shannon -- an Auror under Angus O'Malley. We met just before Christmas."   


"Yes, I remember," she returned coolly, although grateful that he now hefted her stack of textbooks. "You called my cat a monster."   


He laughed at that, his booming chuckle a remarkably soothing sound. "That I did, m'am," he acknowledged. "But I'm hopin' that you won't hold that against me -- since you're going to be seeing me quite often in the future."   


"Am I now?" she volleyed archly. "And exactly why is that?"   


If he noticed her sharp tone, he ignored it, answering her amicably. "That's what I'd like to explain to you. May I come in?"   


Sighing, she nodded, holding the door so he could enter, her books still in his arms.   


The explanation which Craig gave her was simple and honest, a fact for which she was appreciative. Never did he try to sidestep the circumstances for either of them as he told her of his new 'assignment.'  


"Someone is worried about you," he informed her. "I 'spect it's Albus Dumbledore, since he's Angus's friend and all. Anyway, it's been decided that someone needs to keep an eye on you. It seems I've got the job."   


They were seated in her spacious room, Hermione on the edge of the bed and Auror Shannon in the desk chair, which was slightly too small for his large, muscular frame. "You mean that I've got myself a babysitter?" she asked incredulously, anger piqued at the thought.   


"No," he hastened to answer. "More of a friend-on-force. It'll be my duty to come and check on you, about once a week. Nothing more. Just a few minutes of your time, to satisfy Angus that you're still well and in good health."   


"How did you get stuck with it?"   


He chuckled once more. "I'm the youngest in the department and I spend most of my time acting as Angus's personal page and servant anyway. Seems fitting, don't ya think?"   


On that initial meeting, she agreed to meet him exactly one week later, at Aldersgate after her last class of the day, much as they had on the initial afternoon. He readily agreed before hurrying off to report to O'Malley, bidding her farewell at the apartment's front door.   


At first, Hermione had been incensed at the idea of having someone to constantly watch over her, even if it was only a cautionary check-in once a week. Eventually, however, she realized that it was only a reflection of Dumbledore's concern for her and slowly buried the anger which she'd felt.   


As Craig had told her, his visits were only supposed to last a few minutes, just long enough to assure him that she was well and in no immediate danger. As it happened however, the young student had missed lunch in order to study for an exam on the day of their first planned meeting, which meant that she was ravenous by the time she was released from her last class. When she met Craig as they had arranged, Hermione was desperate for food -- so much so that she felt little hesitation in suggesting that they adjourn to a near-by restaurant for their dialogue on her safety and well-being. Surprised but not badly so, Shannon agreed to share a meal with her, an acceptance which began the tradition which persisted throughout the next several weeks. Instead of meeting at Aldersgate on Friday afternoons, their 'usual' place became a café-styled eatery for wizards wedged near Trinity's Science and Research Halls, a cozy establishment which was always guaranteed to be warm and inviting.   


While she never quite considered Craig to be a friend, Hermione knew that she enjoyed their appointments; the young Auror was friendly, polite and intelligent which made conversation animated and him a nice dinner companion on nights which she would have otherwise spent alone. Over the first few weeks, she slowly gleaned information about him from their conversations. He was 23 years old and had been particularly talented in Charms while in school. He'd traveled briefly before going into Auror training, and his family was very proud of his choice of profession, although his mother worried constantly. He had an owl, hated cats but loved the outdoors and playing Quidditch, like most wizards; his great-grandmother had been Muggleborn.   


Hermione give him similar information about her life, telling him of her passion for mediwizardry, her own Muggle heritage and her obvious affection for Crookshanks, "the cleverest cat familiar" she'd ever known of. Sometimes, they seriously discussed the news splashed across magical newspapers or in letters from friends. At others, they laughed about old anecdotes from their school days, or exchanged the latest bad jokes which were circulating -- Hermione found it hilarious that Aurors were notorious for a 'wand-and-broom' brand of joke-telling. Without realizing it, the student began to look forward to those dinners with Craig. Never, however, did she stop to analyze their relationship as anything but two persons meeting by O'Malley's declaration and Dumbledore's design.   


It wasn't until he appeared unexpectedly one Monday afternoon that she even speculated that there could be more between them other than a friendly rapport and a professional obligation.   


"What are _you_ doing here?" was the first thing that came to mind for her to say when she saw Craig waiting for her in front of the Aldersgate dormitory, lounging against the building as if it were normal for him to be there again so soon. Dressed casually in Muggle clothing, he was even more pleasant to look at than he did in his usual robes, she noticed.   


He grinned at her outburst, shrugging. "Waiting for you, of course. What did you think?"   


"Yes, but it's _Monday_," Hermione pointed out, confused. Then, she suddenly furrowed her brow. "Is something wrong?"   


"No, it's nothing like that," he assured her, taking a few steps toward her as he did so.   


"Then why are you here?"   


A hesitance coming over at him which was at odds with his typical demeanor, Craig nervously glanced over at Maureen and Elena, who had been walking with Hermione from classes. While the Greek girl looked politely disinterested, Maureen was unabashedly listening to the conversation, obviously and shamelessly curious. The young Auror cleared his throat nervously. "It's a bit…confidential," he explained haltingly. "Something I rather say in a less public setting."   


"Well, if you two would excuse us…" Elena tactfully smiled and grabbed hold of Maureen's arm, leading them into the apartment building. "It was nice to see you again, Mr. Shannon."   


"Please, call me Craig," he returned jovially.   


"Hermione, if you need us, we'll be up in Sarah's room, studying. Okaaaaay?" Maureen added before she was dragged inside by her best friend.   


The witch immediately turned her eyes back to her unexpected visitor as soon as the door shut behind her friends. "So, what is it?" she inquired anxiously.   


"I told you already, it's nothing bad," he repeated, almost amused by her presupposition. "Not err'thing that has to do with me is bad, y'know. But if ye feel that way, perhaps I should just forget out this."   


"Craig!" she admonished. "Just say what you came to say and get on with it."   


He nodded, then flashed her a brilliant smile. "Have you plans for this evening?"   


Hermione was perplexed by the question, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she considered her answer. "Just some studying. And dinner, of course."   


"Then will you have dinner with me?"   


She couldn't help herself -- Hermione burst into laughter, earning her dark look from the obviously confused young man.   


"That's not the reaction I expected."   


"Is that what you wanted to ask me, all this time?" she asked once she'd caught her breath. When he nodded mutely, she giggled. "Craig, we have dinner every week. If you wanted company, why didn't you just say so?"   


"That's not what I meant," he explained, gently laying his hand on her arm in the barest of touches. Suddenly, he seemed very serious. "When I asked you to dinner, I meant something different than Friday nights." When she still looked baffled, he added. "I meant it as a date, Hermione."   


When the word _date_ finally penetrated through her brain, her eyes widened as she look up at the young man. "Oh….."   


Shaking his head, Craig chuckled at her astounded expression as he shook his head. "For a smart girl, Miss Granger, you're a bit dense, sometimes."   


"I just never thought…" she foundered to hide her painfully apparent surprise. "I wasn't expecting you to say _that_!"   


Again, he shook his head, shoulders still shaking slightly with self-deprecating laughter. "Well?"   


"Well what?" she asked unthinkingly, but was soon reminded by the glare her comment earned her. "Oh, well…."   


"It isn't that difficult a question. A yes or no will suffice."   


Some part of Hermione wanted to answer 'no' and leave their relationship exactly as it had been for the past few weeks. She _liked_ the dinners she shared with the young Auror and enjoyed the ease of them; she wanted nothing to happen which might ruined that. On the other hand…she wanted to say yes as well. After all, what was wrong with wanting to have dinner with a handsome, intelligent young man and calling it a date?   


"Any time now."   


"Oh…I…yes." Hermione finally answered, cheeks flushing slightly.   


Craig's strong face broke out into an even more brilliant grin. "That's great."   


She quickly scrambled up the stairs of the building. "I've just got to drop these books and let my friends know that I'm leaving. I'll be right back."   


As Hermione closed the door behind her, she stubbornly ignored a slight twinge form somewhere deep in her heart.   
  
  


***

  
  


Just as her spontaneous offer for dinner had started a tradition in she and Craig's relationship, her acceptance of his date had altered the dynamics once again. Instead of only seeing him for their regular Friday night 'meetings,' Hermione also saw him several times during the other days of the week, their casual outings ranging dinner to plays to Sunday trips to the park. He had even begun to join them for the Maureen-hosted Karaoke night which the American took great joy in having. As if in answer to the girl's almost-forgotten declaration, her mother had bought her for Christmas a small, portable version of the Karaoke machine which ran on the same magic as the WNN radio. The technology for it, Hermione had been amused to learn, had been developed by industrious Japanese wizards who had imported their product to the United States. And with the machine, Maureen had brought back from America a number of faux-CDs filled with her favorite songs, thus inflicting on her horrible voice and rhythm-less dancing on everyone in the Aldersgate dormitory.   


When she had the chance to pause and reflect on her busy life, Hermione had to admit that she was happy, happier than she had ever expected to be with her two best friends far away and a wizarding war slowly escalating to a higher pitch with every passing day. She enjoyed her classes, adored her new friends and loved every minute she spent with Craig, with the notable exception of his Quidditch speech which he teasingly gave whenever she drifted away in her attention. Theirs was an easy relationship, affectionate but not overly emotional or any more serious than goodnight kisses and a few sessions which escalated into something far beyond kissing, but never called upon Hermione to use any of the charms or potions she'd memorized from her Sex Education class. On that fact, the witch was pleasantly surprised with Craig's gentlemanly attitude in allowing her to decide the pace of their physical involvement without any complaint about the slow pace she chose. She was content on all fronts and, except for the never-subsiding worry she carried for her friends and family in England, her life was devoid of much complication.   


_Much_, being a very relative term.   


Because every so often, there was something of a twinge in her heart again, a sort of emotional equivalent of a wince, the kind of small smart of pain one might have when accidentally brushing against a healing bruise. It wasn't sharp or unbearable; it was…a twinge.   


Hermione was thoroughly disgusted with that accursed twinge because she knew just what caused it.   


Guilt.  


The fact that the twinge was caused by guilt made her even more irritable. The fact that the guilt was caused by certain feelings her heart harbored with which she did not entirely agree made her furious. Guilt! Over…_Snape_! It was enough to drive her mad, especially since it was so frustrating. She knew intellectually that her actions were blameless in the matter. It wasn't as if she had any sort of real relationship with him, so there was no crime to her relationship with Craig. Even Dumbledore, she reminded herself, had told her not to cloister herself away and never to allow herself to be confined by the results of the terrible hayam potions lesson.   


Unfortunately, she had little sway over her heart and the twinge continued to prick at her conscience. It usually happened in very quiet moments like in the mornings as she readied for classes when she'd catch a shimmer of refracted rainbow dancing across the floor and she'd glance up to see Mnemosyne looking down at her from a high shelf. Or sometimes, the twinge hit her during Potions class as she and Sarah, her highly competent lab partner, were gathering ingredients and she'd hear his rich voice echoing in the back of her mind, repeating the names of the herbs as she read them from the board.   


The twinge was strongest, however, when she saw his unmistakable handwriting on a letter and it pained her a little more sharply with every word she read.   


Damn bloody twinge. Damn bloody letters. Damn bloody Snape.   


She and Snape still corresponded by owl, although the letters had slowly become less formal and more teasing, although the tone remained biting and the sarcasm heavily administered. The first letter of the new term was his, a mocking thank-you for his Christmas present in which he stubbornly refused to comment on his opinion of the wine.   


_Wines,_ he had written, _like many great things defy mere description. I cannot in this mundane space adequately explain my experience with the vino santo, stuffed between lines of false courtesy and alchemical theory. It would be profane to do so. _  


_Ah, but Professor,_ she had returned, _you offer great injustice to your own preferred profession by such a remark. Or, is "stuffing" a discussion of wine between the odious tasks of dusting and scrubbing somehow less profane than the same between less heady subjects in a letter? For I remember a spirited monologue on your part about the Chianti sent to you by your cousin to be wedged so. _  


_Marcus's Chianti,_ he wrote back, _ as you may recall, was so odious in its own right that it should have been used as a cleaning solvent and not an aperitif. Good wine deserves a better stage than either scenario -- cleaning or false courtesy ._  


_So, you admit that it was good?_  


The letters' topics were not narrowly confined to wine, alchemical theory and false courtesy, either, but a whole range of subjects, much in the way their discussions at Christmas had been. Hermione felt herself much more able to express herself freely and personally than she had during the fall term, as if she had finally integrated her whole personality into her responses, somehow freed by the frank conversations they'd shared.   


The only topic which they never discussed was the war, and all things which connected to it, including Hermione's brush with the Death Eaters. Including Craig.   


Despite her emotional upheaval, Hermione's second term at Trinity went smoothly in all other aspects, her course load at the perfect but sometimes elusive balance between difficult and interesting. The only real problem she faced academically was the fact that she had one more required standard-level course to complete before she could move ahead to the higher level classes. That hurtle happened to be Divination.   


Yes, the dreaded D-word, the class-which-should-be-banished. It had never mattered to Hermione how many successful diviners she'd studied in History of Magic, nor the legitimacy most other granted the imprecise science, there was something about Divination which was too hokey for her. The word itself still conjured up images of "gypsies" in bad wigs and big hoop-earrings at carnivals or a Caribbean woman in traditional African robes flipping tarot cards on television behind a flashing telephone number. It was contrived and worth little as a course of study from her perspective.   


It was unfortunate that the professors at Trinity did not share her estimation of the subject. So, on top of her exam schedule and the mountain of term essays she was required to finish, Hermione spent a great deal of time trying to maneuver herself out of a semester's worth of university-level Divination.   


Although she did enjoyed exams -- it was twisted, but she really did -- Hermione was as susceptible as all her classmates to the nervous and short tempers which usually accompanied them in that excruciating week during which exams were sat for and lengthy compositions were due. With her added tasks of trying to escape Divination Basics for her next term, the girl was relieved that she still remembered her mother's full name, let alone anything pedantic.   


_Carolina Viviana Appolonia Scias…_  


"Hermione?"   


As had happened much too often in the past week, Hermione had drifted off into her own thoughts even as Craig sat next to her, lazily watching her daydream as if it were something fascinating to watch. Chagrined, she shifted against the rough bark of the tree against which she leaned so that she was almost eye-to-eye with him. "I'm sorry, Craig. What were you saying?"   


"Well, about three seconds ago, I was talking about my predictions for the next World Cup," he teased, noticing the way she flinched at the use of the 'predictions.' "Before that, though, I was asking about your plans for the summer."   


"Oh." Such an intelligent answer, she chastised herself, although she was still discomfited by the import which the seemingly innocuous question carried. She knew that Craig was really wondering if she had any plans over the summer which might involve him.   


She felt that twinge again.   


"Well?"   


"Well…I _do_ have some plans," she answered, desperately wanting to evade the emotional discussion which she knew was inevitable. That damned twinge had gotten too painful to bear and since summer would find him in Ireland and she not…  


"I'm going to spend a few weeks with my parents," she revealed, keeping her eyes calmly focused on the green blur of the manicured park landscape directly in front of her. "Then, my friend is graduating from Hogwarts, so I'll be going there for that…and then, I've got some independent coursework to finish before the Fall."   


"I see," he nodded, his voice grave against her ears. Worried, she couldn't stop herself from stealing a glance at his profile and noticing the uncharacteristically serious look on his face. As the silence stretched out between them, she shifted her seating position, as if the ground had suddenly become too hard for her to bear. "Can I ask you a question, Hermione?"   


"Of course," she nodded instantly. Truth was something she could certainly handle, at least when it came to Craig.   


"Is there someone else?"   


"What…I…I…how -- just what are you implying!?" she sputtered, now staring at him with a half-enraged, half-shocked expression.   


Although he was visibly upset, he managed a weak grin at the look he saw on her face. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, old girl," he chuckled. "I didn't think you were two-timing me like that. I just meant…was there someone else back home, waiting for you?"   


"I…uh….well…" Sometimes, truth wasn't as simple as Hermione would have liked. Sighing, she steeled herself to give as near as the truth as she could manage. "Sort of, I guess."   


Craig raised an eyebrow at that. "Care to explain?"   


"Well…" She crossed her arms and frowned thoughtfully. "Do you want the simple truth or the very complicated truth?"   


"I'll go for the complicated," he drawled as he settled himself against her, as if readying for a long chat. "Seeing as how I know how you love to talk."   


Sparing him a cursory indignant glare, Hermione brushed her hands idly against her jeans in a motion of preparation. "There is someone… "back home" … in the sense that I had -- feelings? -- for someone before I came to Trinity."   


"Someone from your old school?"   


"Yes," she answered, grateful that his question was so easily answered honestly. "But he never -- will -- feel? -- the same way as I will….er, do. So, I had hoped to move on and get over it all. I'm sorry," she added as an afterthought. "I didn't mean to do this to you."   


She expected ome kind of strong emotion from him after her confession but received a shrug of his shoulders against her leg and a sigh. "For a smart girl, Miss Granger, you're a bit dense, sometimes."   


"I beg your pardon?"   


Craig pulled himself up until he was looking directly at her. "I can tell you've haven't dated much before."   


"WHAT?"   


He laughed again, shaking his head. "Hermione, it was pretty obvious from the onset of this thing of ours that you weren't…emotionally invested, I guess. I mean, I expected it to change…I _hoped_ it would change, but…I'm not an idiot."   


"Oh." _Right articulate of you, Hermione_, she growled at herself mentally, although she wasn't certain how to respond to Craig's comment.   


"So…" he looked away from her and fastened his very blue eyes on the same hedgerow she had. "I guess this is goodbye -- romantically speaking, of course."   


"Yes," she agreed, seeing surprisingly lighter now that the decision had been reached. She noticed crossly that she felt no twinge of guilt for her treatment of Craig. "Does that mean you'll still be on baby-sitting duty next term?"   


"I don't know," he returned truthfully. "But, even if I'm not, you're still my friend. This partin' of the ways isn't going to change that. Even if you are a shameless flirtin' tease to do me so wrong all this time."   


Nothing could have stopped it; Hermione threw her head back and laughed, Craig joining in with his own raucous chuckle so loudly that passers-by gave them strange looks until they quieted to a low roar.   


"You're a decent guy, Craig," she observed sincerely between giggles as she rose to her feet to brush off the dirt which clung to the fabric of her jeans.   


"I know," he told her smugly as he looked up at her, running a hand through his hair in an unknowingly perfect mimic of Draco Malfoy. "Too bad you're too daft to notice."   
  
  


*****

  
  


Nostalgia swept over Hermione as she stood with most of the Weasleys and Harry as they milled around the Great Hall after Ginny's graduation. Although she had returned since her own graduation, Hermione had had little time or presence of mind to appreciate the atmosphere of Hogwarts during her stay over the Christmas holiday. As much as she had come to like Trinity and Ireland, her heart still belonged to the ancient boarding school first and foremost.   


It had been three weeks since her talk with Craig and a fortnight since she had concluded her exams before traveling home to visit her mother and father. Her marks on her exams had been close to flawless and she had come to an agreement with her mentor over the nasty Divination fiasco. She departed from Trinity with nothing but fond memories of the term and the young man she left behind, very much in contrast to the way she'd felt at the end of her fall term.   


"Congratulations!" she squealed among the other half-dozen remarks which flew at Ginny as she appeared from within the mass of bodies, a huge grin on her face as she accepted hug after hug from her family and friends. "I knew you could do it!" Hermione told her as she threw her arms around the young girl.   


"It's so hard to believe, I'm finished!" Ginny laughed giddily as she pulled away. "It still seems a bit unreal."   


"Give it time," Ron advised, slapping her affectionately on the back. "You'll get used to it."   


Abandoning her friend to the merciless teasing of her brothers, Hermione waded through the crowds, slowly moving away from the tell-tale cluster of redheads. Noticing a flash of tartan amidst the robes, she pushed her way to Professor McGonagall's side.   


"Hermione," exclaimed the professor, smiling as her protégé reached her. "I knew I'd see you eventually, although in this crowd…"   


She nodded amiably. "Yes, it does seem larger than last year's. I didn't realize that there were so many more students a year below me."   


"The classes seem to get larger every year," McGonagall offered, looking around. "Let's hope that there aren't any reasons for that to change in the future." As if to hurry past the implications of that comment, McGonagall continued, "How was your time with your parents?"   


"Fine," answered she, smiling. "My mother wanted me to stay at home a bit more this summer, but she finally stopped protesting about two days after I came home."   


"I hope that _you're_ prepared for the challenges ahead of you," the professor told her, trying gamely to use her no-nonsense classroom voice, although there was a hint of a smile on her face.   


"Of course, Professor," Hermione told her mock-seriously. She held up her wrist to display the gold bracelet with the tiny star charms. "Very prepared."   


"I see," the older woman returned. "That's good to hear. I worried that university life had spoiled you."   


At that, Hermione laughed. "Never," she assured her.   


Scanning the crowds, McGonagall did offer something related to a satisfied half-smile when she espied one of her fellow instructors scowling menacingly at everyone within a meter radius of where he stood. "It looks as if Severus still hasn't managed to disappear from the festivities. And he looks very…displeased…with that fact."   


Following the professor's line of vision, Hermione turned to see Snape, just as she remembered him with his dark robes and even darker expression. His posture was stiff and tense, as if he waited for something horrible to happen at each turn of a body in the throng of graduates and well-wishers. As she watched him glare at a passing student, she felt that twinge that had bothered her all semester spring to life again only to take on the form of a pang, the sort usually found in badly written Harlequin romance novels.   


Damn bloody _pang_.   


"I think you find his….displeasure…very funny," the young woman accused her former instructor playfully.   


"As a matter of fact, I do," McGonagall told her, mirth dancing in her eyes as they shared an amused chuckle.   


Her own eyes bright with mischief, Hermione excused herself and strode purposely toward the source of their amusement who still stood against the wall, casting longing glances toward the entrance hall which offered escape from the celebration. Once at his side, she promptly spoke. "Good afternoon, Professor."   


He glanced at her quickly, then sighed dramatically. "Miss Granger," he drawled. "I should have known. Wherever Potter and Weasely are, you are certain to be close at hand." He nodded in the direction of the hard-to-miss patch of red-haired heads marred by one unruly dark mop of hair.   


She raised an eyebrow at his tortured expression. "Don't look so pained," she advised. "Or I might be persuaded to bring Harry over here for a chat. I know how much you'd enjoy _that_."   


"Hmmm," he returned, his deep voice betraying no more emotion than his stoic face. When she made no move to leave him, he rolled his eyes. "Was there something you wanted or have you simply tired with bothering everyone else?"   


"As a matter of fact, I was wondering if you had any plans for the summer," she told him, trying to hide her growing amusement behind a façade of cheerfulness. Although his manner was as harsh as it had always been, something inside her made impossible for her to take it personally.   


"And what would my plans have to do with you, Miss Granger?"   


"I thought that they might be similar," she espoused breezily. "And I was hoping that I could schedule a appropriate time and place for what promises to be an almost spiritual pontification on that vino santo."   


Something which might have been amusement flickered in his eyes as he answered. "Pity, because unless your plans involve Hogwarts and dedicated research, then I doubt that our paths will cross for such an opportunity."   


"Actually, that works out quite well, seeing as how I'm spending my summer here."   


"What?"   


His surprise was evident in the exclamation which drew the attention of several people within earshot.   


"I knew you'd be pleased," she grinned at him, obviously amused. "You see, I've arranged with Professor Dumbledore to stay here and work on an independent study. I also have to finish some work with Professor McGonagall."   


"How…_nice_."   


"It will be wonderful," she promised him teasingly. "And now I hope that you will find time in your schedule for that discussion about the wine. I know that it will be difficult to admit that you're wrong, but…it'll be an enlightening experience in the end. Especially for you."   


"Miss Granger…" he began warningly, shooting her a dark glare that she hadn't seen since she had been a student.   


"Miss Granger!" Dumbledore's timely appearance spared her from whatever waspish comment which Snape had planned to make. He smiled at both the Potions Master and the young woman before motioning toward a spot of bright red hair in the sea of people. "I do believe that the Weasleys are preparing to leave. Perhaps you'd like to go say your goodbyes?"   


"Yes, I think I shall," she nodded, glancing over at the family gathered near the doors of the Great Hall. "I'll talk to you later about my project, Professor?"   


"Of course," he agreed. "Tomorrow."   


With a parting glance over her shoulder, she melted into the crowds, wading through the celebrants to reach Harry and the Weasleys.   


"Having a nice time, Severus?" Dumbledore inquired in his characteristic much-too-innocent tone of voice which made Snape scowl even more.   


"No," he answered honestly. "I can't imagine why you expressed the hopes that I'd remain here for the duration."   


"No one has ever been irrevocably damaged by attending a graduation," the headmaster assured him. "I daresay you'll survive."   


Snape didn't answer, knowing that it would do him little good to argue with the elder wizard. Instead he ran his eyes over the crowds, sneering at any student who dared turn a timid eye to where he stood. Without any provocation, his gaze was drawn to where Hermione was speaking animatedly with her friends, waving her arms in sync with whatever words she spoke to emphasize her message. With every toss of her head, her voluminous hair fell in erratic torrents around her, into her face and tangling around her waving limbs. There was some humorous and captivating in the methodic cycle of head toss, tangle, and the inevitable disentangle which would invariably be followed by another head toss, and Snape found himself watching as she repeated the steps once again.   


"-- and it will be interesting to have Miss Granger spending the summer here with us," Dumbledore was saying as Snape broke away from his observations. "I know that I'll enjoy slipping into the role of mentor once again, if only for a few months."   


Snape raised an eyebrow at the headmaster's comment as he doggedly fixed his attention onto the older wizard. "And exactly what is Miss Granger studying for this independent study which requires your services as a mentor?"   


"Divination," he replied. "It seems as if she's made an agreement with her mentor at Trinity which will allow her to substitute a full length study overseen by a reputable instructor -- which qualifies me, I think -- for the usual requirement of taking a basic-level Divination class. Quite clever of her, wasn't it?"   


"Why isn't Sibyl overseeing her project?"   


"Alas, she and Professor Trelawny have differing philosophies when it comes to Divination," Dumbledore explained, eyes twinkling. "So I was honored to offer my services. I doubt much will be required of me since she's such a capable student."   


"I see," Snape said, a downturn of his already grimly-set mouth displaying his further displeasure. "Capable isn't the word, Albus."   


Dumbledore laughed jovially, his whole frame shaking from the action. "You shouldn't speak so highly of her, Severus," he deadpanned once he had ceased laughing. After a moment he added, "It might give someone the impression that you actually care."   


By that time, however, Snape's attention had once again focused itself on observing Hermione as she bid farewell to the Weasleys and anyone watching him would have recognized the glower on his face as he watched his former student swamped with attention from her two oldest friends as the glare he had specially reserved for particularly distasteful things like melting cauldrons and corrosive potions accidents.   
  
  


*****

  
  


_Author's Notes_: Sorry about the long wait, dear readers, but I've written and re-written this part and while I'm still not exactly pleased, it's as good as I can get it. Thank you all for your reviews which kept me aware of the fact that you were waiting for an update and one was long overdue. This part was a bit of the filler side, but now we can all look forward to a whole summer of SS/HG interaction. Aren't we happy?   


To answer some questions I remember from them: Yes, I like _Pride and Prejudice_; To Flourish: Yes, I think Snape fits well with Camus. If you've ever read _Les Justes_ -- (which I have, in French like Hermione will do) -- I find a striking parallel between Stepan and Snape, not to mention that Kaliayev is very Gryffindor, IMO.   


I'm glad that many of you enjoyed Hermione's family; I know that including them played havoc with the pacing of that last part, but I felt that it was important to include. In fact, if I ever write another HP fic, I'll probably transplant them because I love them so much myself. ^_^   


To everyone unhappy with the last part -- sorry. 


	11. The Crystal Visions

**Heart over mind : Part XI  
The Crystal Visions   
**

  


***

  


It took little less than a week for Hermione to settle into a pattern for her summer studies at Hogwarts, a schedule which equally divided her time between her Divination project with Dumbledore and her Animagus training with McGonagall. Of course, Dumbledore was only involved in her Divination work in the most nominal sense; after their initial meeting in which he read to her the very specific detail he'd received via a letter from Trinity's Divination department head, he'd done nothing more than ask her for cursory reports on her progress once a day, usually when she ate breakfast with the other remaining professors. Of course, he had assured her that he'd be available if she have need of him, but the headmaster had also told her that he was confident in her abilities to complete her formidable project without his interference.   


On the other hand, Professor McGonagall had been much more active in her role as instructor during their Animagus lessons, especially now that the tutorials had come to involve Hermione sustaining her Animagus form for long periods of time -- usually a few hours -- during which she was forced to perform various physical tasks in order to build her stamina. When the girl had complained that she felt like a circus animal performing stupid pet tricks, McGonagall had merely offered to discontinue the lessons if she found herself not up to the task. Grudgingly, Hermione had squelched her mortification at being forced to play fetch and had characteristically immersed herself in the last stages of training with the hope that she'd be a full-fledged Animagus by the summer's end.   


While the physical nature of her Animagus training taxed her nerves, Hermione had quickly discovered -- much to her surprise -- that her Divination project was not the tiresome task she had expected it to be. As per Trinity's specifications, she had been given a Divination reading to interpret and analyze, while utilizing other branches of Divination and her other Magical subjects enrich her understanding of that particular reading. When Dumbledore had chosen crystals for her concentration, she had immediately thought of a half-dozen other subjects that she'd be able to use in her deeper examination of the cast stones. She settled for focusing on three of her strongest subjects in order to make her research more focused and less haphazard: Arithmancy, in which she devised a clever way to analyze the stones in various numerical ways, including their metric masses, densities, Latin names and folk names; Mediwizardry, where she could study the connection between their purported healing properties and their meanings within divination; and Alchemy, where she wanted to conduct various experiments to see if the stones' magical reactions within a laboratory setting had all correlation to their relationships within a cast circle.   


The subjects of alchemy and laboratories quickly led to her path to cross the acerbic Potions professor who had spent the first week of her stay purposefully avoiding her. Of course, McGonagall had explained that Snape usually spent as much time as possible away from people during the first few weeks of every term break, Hermione could not ignore the nagging little voice which told her that her presence had been a factor in his apparent invisibility, if only a small one.  


In that first week, she'd only seen him once, when he had come across her at her favorite, sun-bathed desk in the library, furiously working on the preliminary research for her Divination dissertation. So absorbed had she been in reading that Hermione didn't notice Snape's presence until he spoke to her.   


"I didn't realize that you'd begun to sprout feathers, Miss Granger," he'd stated, the words accompanied by one pale hand reaching up to remove one of the quills she had haphazardly stabbed through her hair. Because of its voluminous length, it now took Hermione two quills to securely pin up her hair.   


With his action, a cloud of brown hair tumbled down and Hermione had to push it out of her face as she craned her neck to see Snape properly. "It's a skill I mastered just recently, Professor. I had planned on writing you about it, but it slipped my mind."   


He nodded in recognition of her sarcasm, then pointed to the small square of wood on which was placed a scattering of crystals over strange sigils. "I take it that that is the divination reading for your project?"   


Hermione placed a scrap of parchment between the pages she'd been reading and closed the book. "Yes, it is. Professor Dumbledore placed a freezing charm over it after it was cast, so I'll have it for the duration of my project."   


Snape idly twirled the wispy-feathered quill between his fingers. "Do you plan for this _study_ of yours to last the whole summer?"   


Laying her book flat on the table, Hermione twisted in her chair so that she was looking directly at the standing professor. "Is that your not-so-subtle way of asking when I'm leaving? If you'd like to know what I'm doing with my vacation, all you need to do is ask."   


"I was merely feigning polite curiosity," he retorted coolly, his spine stiffening as he dropped her quill to the table's polished surface. Despite his apparent frost, she could sense the dry humor behind the words. "I have little interest in anything you decide to do, Miss Granger."   


"Are you…well, Professor?" she inquired instead of scathing reply she'd originally planned to his baited comment. She noticed how haggard he looked, his dark eyes more heavily ringed and his skin more sallow than she'd seen it since that night in the infirmary in her seventh year.   


"I am as well as can be expected with the sobering knowledge that I'll be subjected to your inane comments during my whole vacation," he answered sardonically, evading the direct question. His hand still hovered over the quill he'd once held, fingers only centimeters from touching the tabletop. "Not to mention the threat of your sermon of Muggle superiority hanging over my head. I still believe that you're more trouble now than you were when you were a student."   


Hermione grinned. "You flatter me, Professor."   


"Never, Miss Granger," he assured her, his dark eyes like split ink in the way they reflected the light. Although she'd never admit it, Hermione found his eyes to be mesmerizing.   


"I can well believe that," she answered truthfully, looking away from his face to watch the sunlight pattern the table with half-fractured rainbows. The rainbows reminded her of her Idol. "I've been meaning to thank you -- in person, that is -- for my Christmas present."   


"I noticed how much you liked mine," he explained briskly. "It's an alchemical tradition, for one to pass from master to student. Since I'm the last Potions Master forced to endure your presence in a teaching capacity, I saw it as my duty. Nothing more."   


Without much thought into her actions, Hermione laid her hand over his which hovered over the quill. "The words meant a great deal, as well," she told him softly, almost shyly.   


For the first time in many years, Snape appeared at a lost for words in the wake of her honest comment. Clearing his throat, he gently pulled his hand away from hers. "They were meant to," he finally managed to say. "I've interrupted your work too long," he added, clearing his throat again. "Good day, Miss Granger."   


With that, Snape had swept away from her, dark hair and dark robes swirling in a dramatic flourish as he spun away and moved deeper into the library's recesses.   


Then, after that…nothing. In her mind, it all seemed very deliberate -- his avoiding her. And it made her apprehension about seeking him out for help.   


But after gathering her famed Gryffindor courage, Hermione had barged into his office and asked him to allow her a small working space in classroom labs so that she could conduct the necessary alchemical tests.   


"And you've need of how much space?" he'd asked, obviously displeased that the bothersome creature was not only invading the school, but his personal domain as well. His desk was still as cluttered by parchments and dusty tomes as it was during the school year, leading Hermione to wonder at how much of the disarray could be blamed on students.   


"A very small bit," she assured him, emphasizing her statement by pinching two fingers close together in a visional display of _small bit_. "Just one workbench, at the most. Probably only half of one, really."   


Snape steepled his fingers and watched her over the pointed digits, his dark eyes unreadable. With a dramatic sigh, he nodded slightly. "Very well, Miss Granger. If you promise -- on pain of _death_, mind you -- to not disturb me or my own projects, I will lend to you a workbench in my private laboratory space."   


Even before he'd finished speaking, Hermione protested. "There's really no need for that, Professor."   


He rolled his eyes. "Have we not had this discussion? Unless your experiences during Spring Term have changed your original statement, I was under the impression we had come to the conclusion you had higher standards in space and equipment than the classroom laboratory could afford. Is that no longer true?"   


"No, but --"   


He raised a pale hand to halt her words. "You will pre-arrange times with me so that I can plan my own agenda accordingly. However, I will not coddle or otherwise hover over you; I'll adjust the wards for you so that you may come and go without disturbing me." 

Hermione gaped at him, unsure as to be flattered by his obvious trust in her or offended by his continued desire to avoid her. Settling for a nebulous feeling between the two, she nodded slowly, distrusting her voice.   


However, if Snape's motive in giving Hermione free access into his laboratory had been to avoid seeing her, he'd miscalculated; more often than not, Snape's alchemical research in the lab coincided with hers, even though he was fully aware of her work schedule. And although she made a point to ask him nothing about his own complicated-looking set-ups, Hermione occasionally offered her services to him whenever she had a free afternoon, glad to take a break from the double weight of Divination and Advanced Transfiguration. With little reservation, he'd accepted her help and she sometimes spent whole days helping him with less delicate potions works like Pomfrey's medicinal supply or Filch's cleaning solvents.   


She firmly told herself that she helped only out of gratitude for the use of his personal lab and superior equipment. Over and over, Hermione promised herself that it had nothing to do with wanting to spend as much time with him as possible. It was unfortunate that she was never able to convince herself of it.   


It had been terse that first morning, with Snape being at his most formal while Hermione had been jittery and unsettled for some reason she couldn't understand. The terseness seemed rooted in awkwardness, as if the rapport they'd developed during Christmas and through their letters had somehow become rusted, leaving them with hindered and uncertain.   


Half an hour after Hermione's arrival, all that tension shattered when she'd shrugged off her utilitarian black robe in deference to the rising heat of the small enclosed workroom.   


At the sight of what lay beneath the discarded robes, Snape arched an eyebrow, pinning his companion with a questioning look. Hermione chose to ignore him and continued with her work in feigned oblivion to his surprise, unsure of why he looked so…amused?   


Was that even amusement on his face which made one side of his mouth twitch upwards?   


Even the fact that it could be amusement irked Hermione as she busied herself at removing microscopic shavings of minerals to analyze, thankful for the magical tools which made the job much easier than any Muggle tool could have. It wasn't as if she were dressed indecently -- the very idea of it, coupled with the heat, made her blush into the roots of her hair. McGonagall had assured Hermione that there was little need for her to dress formally during her stay, directing her to "dress as you normally would on vacation…just make sure to have a robe with you in case someone important shows up." Taking the advise to heart, the girl had donned jeans and a T-shirt under her black school robe; she'd decided on clunky boots to protect her feet from any spilled potion and her wild, frizzy hair was pulled up into a high, braided ponytail for the same reason.   


There was nothing amusing, unusual or scandalous about what she wore. For the life of her, Hermione could not decipher the slanted look and strange twisted-lip expression Snape was giving her over the rounded spouts of his glass distillation apparatus.   


"What?" she finally snapped, stopping in mid-grate. The small quartz she'd held clattered to the work surface with a chalky ping as she glared at him, trying to give exude frosty disapproval despite the beads of sweat dotting her forehead that made all the small hairs on her hairline frazzle and curl. When he looked at her blandly, she added, "Is there a problem?"   


"Not at all," he assured her, something malicious like humor in the undertones of his mellifluous voice. "I was simply trying to understand the meaning of the message emblazoned on your shirt."   


Having little recollection of which T-shirt she'd grabbed in the early light of dawn and through the fuzziness of half-sleep, Hermione glanced down at her own chest to see what slogan has so caught Snape's attention. She instantly recognized the shirt she'd donned as the one she'd received as a Christmas present from her Aunt Sophia; it, along with a beautiful pair of earrings and some racy undergarments which Carolina would never have purchased for her only daughter, had arrived at her home on Epiphany, late as all of Sophia's presents usually were.   


Slowly looking up from her red- and green-decorated shirt, Hermione easily found the humor she'd suspected in Snape's eyes, his mouth twitching further upwards in mocking smirk.   


Though her eyes warned him to refrain from comment, Snape had faced many circumstances more frightening than Hermione's wrath and so he felt little compulsion to withhold his sardonic comment. "I was wondering, Miss Granger, if you could answer the question which your T-shirt begs: what exactly is _it_ that Italians _do_ better?"   


She opened her mouth to comment, but closed it when she realized that she had nothing to say. Blushing -- _it's the heat_, she assured herself -- she finally managed a feeble but smart-tongued retort. It -- or her obvious flustered state -- won her a soft chuckle from the normally caustic man. 

"Never you mind, Professor."   


After that, there had been no awkwardness or terseness between them. While Hermione hesitated to call it familiarity or ease, she recognized it for what it was and enjoyed every minute of it, silently grateful for Snape's intellect, acid sense of humor, and sharp wit, as well as his surprising willingness to share all of them with her.   


More than Animagus training, more than the academic challenges of Divination analysis, the simple tasks with which she helped Snape made Hermione's heart ache pleasantly, somehow outweighing in its soft way the pride she took in the academic endeavors her mind so loved.   


Damn bloody heart.   
  
  


*****

  
  


"How is your Divination study coming along, Miss Granger?"   


Hermione glanced up from the notes she'd been reading as she ate her meal, arching an eyebrow as she answered. "Very well, thank you, Professor Snape. Did Dumbledore ask you to ask me that since he isn't here to have the privilege?"   


"Not at all," he assured her. "I was genuinely interested."   


Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Were you?" She knew better than to trust such a seemingly polite answer and waited expectedly for Snape to amend it. It was part of their rapport, the sharp-tongued comments which flew between them under the guise of indifferent courtesy.   


"Yes. I happen to be extremely interested in when I'll be able to call my laboratory my own once again."   


Hermione chuckled softly as she reached for her juice. "And that's what I get for asking," she replied. She felt, rather than saw, Snape's answering amusement.   


"Speaking of your studies," McGonagall began, pulling Hermione's attention farther down the head table where they all sat for the noon meal. "If you aren't busy this afternoon, how would you feel about an extra session? Since I'll be away for a few days next week, it would be good for us to have another meeting this week."   


"That's fine," she told her, attention slowly returning to her notes.   


"Then we'll meet in the office as soon as you finish your meal."   


Hermione nodded her agreement, only half-aware of the action as she was once again engrossed in notes she was reviewing. It had been two weeks since she'd returned to Hogwarts for her summer studies and she'd quickly become accustomed to eating meals with her former professors, enjoying the conversation and camaraderie in which she was allowed to join. She let the familiar background noise of McGonagall's voice interspersed with interjections in Professor Barfrost's Norwegian-accented English wash over her as she continued to read through her particularly detailed notes on the magical properties of serpentine.   


She was so absorbed in her reading and her food that she was unaware of the subtle changes in the conversations around her until she heard an unexpected voice ask, "Would ye all excuse me if I stole Miss Granger for a moment?"   


Hermione knew that her eyes must have been as wide as saucers as she jerked her head up to see Craig Shannon standing in the threshold of the Great Hall, grinning at her rakishly as if her obvious astonishment amused him.   


"Craig!" she exclaimed, rising from her chair hastily and hurrying to him. Even as she moved to throw her arms around him in greeting, she realized that she'd missed him in the month which had passed since their last date. Although she no longer wanted him as a romantic interest, she'd always found him to be a good friend. As if to reflect her warm feelings, she tightened her arms around his neck as he returned her embrace, almost lifting her off the ground.   


When Craig released her, Hermione received a friendly kiss before the Irishman finally moved out of her personal space. "What are you doing here?" she asked.   


"Don't think it's because of you, old mum," he informed her, tapping her on the end of her nose in jest. "Angus needed someone to deliver some things to Dumbledore. Since I knew you were here, I figured I'd volunteer -- so, I guess it is for you, after all."   


"It's good to see you," she told him. "I feel like it's been ages since last I saw you."   


He took her hand, his blue eyes intent on hers. "I'm glad o' it," he grinned. "I'm not expected back until the morrow. Could you spare a few hours and entertain an old friend?"   


She bit her lip and glanced back toward the head table in an automatic gesture to find that all of the professors were engrossed in watching their exchange. "I'm sorry, Craig. I'm supposed to meet with Professor McGonagall as soon as we've finished eating."   


"Can't blame me for trying, can ye now?"   


"Miss Granger," the Transfiguration teacher's voice rang out, cutting off Hermione's reply. "As talented as you are in your lessons, I doubt that this one missed lesson will be of little consequence. Go on and visit with your friend."   


"Are you sure it's fine?"   


McGonagall nodded. "Of course. It was nice to meet you again, Auror Shannon."   


Craig nodded courteously. "You, too, m'am. Under much more pleasant circumstances than the last time."   


"Thank you, Professor," Hermione added sincerely before Craig again to pull her toward the Great Hall's towering threshold.   


"Come along, Hermione. There's so much I want you to show me. Maybe starting with that Astronomy Tower you told me so much about…"   


If Hermione or Craig had spared a glance back at the quietly chatting professors, they might have noticed that one professor was watching them with dark, unreadable eyes, his sharp-featured face twisted into such an expression of displeasure that one might have thought that Harry Potter was in attendance.   


Ignoring Craig's teasing about the Astronomy Tower, Hermione did show her friend around many of her favorite places at Hogwarts, including the Gryffindor common room where the Fat Lady commented on her good taste in men and the library where she could have remained all afternoon if Craig had not teased her about it before they both headed outdoors into the bright summer weather for a look-see at the Quidditch pitch, which he found much more fascinating than she ever had. There was also Hagrid's hut to be seen, as well as a quick visit to the dungeons, the greenhouses and -- finally -- a jaunt up to the Tower. In what seemed like a blink of eye, the afternoon hours had passed and Hermione was standing at the school's entrance wishing her friend farewell against a background of the dimming light.   


"Take care, my girl," he told her after he landed another quick buss, this one catching her on he cheek. "Be good and don't work too hard, ya hear?"   


"Same to you," Hermione said. "It _was_ good to see you again."   


After the goodbyes were finished, Craig waved one last time as he walked away from the school grounds proper, moving far enough from the castle so that he could Apparate. Hermione watched until he was no longer visible from the front steps of the building before she reentered the school. Since her meeting with McGonagall had been canceled and she was in little mood to read over her Divination notes, Hermione decided to take advantage of the evening by finishing up some of the lab preparation on which she'd been working in anticipation of her alchemical trials. Since it was about time for the last meal to be served in the Great Hall, she expected to find herself alone as she slipped through Snape's office and used her wand to unlock the serpentine-decorated door.   


She found herself otherwise when she saw the dark figure hunched over his own work, milky-blue liquids bubbling over a high flame.   


"Good evening, Professor."   


"Miss Granger." As he replied, he did not bother to raise his bowed head.   


While Snape's response was not uncharacteristic, Hermione still felt as if there were some slight in it. Shaking her head, she rounded the workbenches and approached her own space, satisfactorily eyeing the long line of bottled mineral shavings, each one bearing a neat, white label in her flourished quill-handwriting. "I had thought that you'd be at dinner," she continued conversationally.   


"I had thought that you'd still be with your guest." The dark hair hid his face from her view but she once again detected a bite to his words.   


"Craig had to leave," she explained, frowning.   


"This early? I was under the impression that he'd cleared the whole evening for you. He _did_ want to delight in the wonders of the Astronomy Tower, did he not?"   


"We're just friends," she heard herself protesting automatically. The underlying meaning of that statement had not escaped Hermione's comprehension and -- for a moment -- she entertained the notion that Snape's obvious frigid demeanor was due to some sorted of twisted jealousy. She rejected that conclusion, however, but still wondered at his stilted behavior.   


"Really?" Finally, Snape lifted his head to look at her and she saw something glimmer in his dark eyes. "That display in the Great Hall had led me to infer otherwise."   


If only she could understand the unfathomable nuances of emotion she saw in his eyes on occasion, how much easier these strangely tense conservations would be, she observed silently.   


"Yes, well…we _were_ close, but not any longer," she tried to explain clearly, all the while turning red. "I…that is, he…it's only that…well, I didn't meet him until last term."   


That bit of information won her an expression from Snape which was undeniably confused and unquestionably condescending. "Thank you, Miss Granger. Not that I actually care about your personal relationships, but that bit of incoherence has explained nothing."   


In Hermione's mind, it should have explained a great deal. After all, Snape had been in the Potions classroom the day she'd proven her immunity to the _hayam_, had he not? Surely, he should have been intelligent enough to understand what she was trying to explain.   


Suddenly, her patience with the whole embarrassing situation vanished. "Perhaps, your memory is faulty, Professor," she snapped. "But I believe that you were the one who informed me of my problem, weren't you? That my immunity to the _hayam_ was because I had already too strong a…an affection in my heart to be coerced otherwise. Since I only met Craig last term it stands to reason that there is little chance of anything between us being construed as serious."   


If she had not been so flustered by having to mention the _hayam_ incident, Hermione might have taken some satisfaction in the astounded look on Snape's face as he watched her yank her hair back in a messy bun. He remained silent as she continued to storm around her workspace gathering materials, then furiously began to reduce a piece of serpentine to dust on the tines of her grater.   


"I had not realized…"   


"What?" she asked grumpily, focused on her work.   


He cleared his throat before answering, his voice softening. "I had not realized that the situation illuminated to you by the _hayam_ had not been…settled."   


"Well, it has not, at least in the way you mean," Hermione sighed, slowing her angry assault on the mottled stone. "I didn't run off and confess my undying love for him, if that's what you thought."   


"It would have been the Gryffindor way," he replied dryly.   


"This from the man who tells me that I have latent Hufflepuff tendencies," she quipped.   


"Touché."   


Her emotions calmer, Hermione resumed her task without an aggressive edge. "Sometimes…things just aren't…right, you know? It would have ended badly had I tried _that_."   


"Are you certain of that?" Snape inquired as he jotted a few scribbles onto a scrap of parchment, observing the milky blue liquid in his flask. Hermione noted that the strange almost-like-jealousy she'd noticed earlier was gone from his voice, but there still remained a tautness in it.   


"I am very certain," she told him bluntly, in turns both amused and horrified with the conversation. Here, she was discussing her problems with Snape…_with Snape_. If her heart hadn't been pounding so loudly that she could barely hear her own thoughts, she might have laughed at herself. _Good one, Hermione. Because your day hadn't been difficult enough beforehand._   


"Come now, are you doubting your own allurements, Miss Granger? Surely you aren't afflicted with low self-esteem? "   


"Not at all," she said in response to his purring sarcasm. "But, as I said…the situation is difficult. The timing…everything is wrong."   


"'Is'?" Snape pointed out, resting his hands on the table as he spoke. No longer was his attention diverted to his flask, but focused on Hermione as she nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot. "Are saying that you still care of this same person?"   


"I thought you didn't care about my personal relationships?"   


"Consider it professional curiosity. Rarely have I had a chance to interrogate someone so thoroughly on their experiences with the _hayam_."   


Hermione bowed her head low over her hands as she worked, searching for a reason to avoid Snape's penetrating gaze. "Fine, then. To assuage your professional curiosity…yes, I still care. I have tried to…forget without much success. Even when I was happy with Craig, I wasn't. Something always…wasn't right." _Damn twinges and pangs_.   


"Fascinating," Snape interjected thoughtfully, as if still processing the information. "And may I know the name of this obviously enthralling individual?"   


Although she knew that he was teasing, Hermione lowered her head more closely to the worktable, closed her eyes and fought the twin reactions of blushing bed and feeling faint at the thought of what he'd just asked her. After gathering her wits, she took a deep breath. "That information, Professor, goes beyond professional curiosity into personal nosiness. So, _no_, you may not know the name of this individual."   


"I think that bodes very ill for your chances, Miss Granger," he informed her, still amused. The tautness was gone from his voice and it held only its usual, velvety qualities. "If you're too afraid to say his name, you've little chance of ever resolving this situation."   


"It's not I'm afraid to say his name, _Professor Snape,_" Hermione returned resolutely, stressing the last two words strangely. "It's just that it's not as simple as you might think."   


"I never thought it was simple," he argued. "Most things, especially important ones, are rarely simple."   


"On that," Hermione nodded. "I agree with you most heartily."   


With a weak excuse about missing dinner and wanting to speak with McGonagall, Hermione hastily cleared away her work to leave. But, before she exited through the laboratory's hidden door, she turned back to Snape. Suddenly, she was filled with resolve, having come to a long-deliberated decision. "I promise, Professor, that one day…I _will_ tell you his name."   


Saying had her say, she swept out of his laboratory and his office, leaving him to wonder at her parting statement.   


To herself as she huried out of the dungeons, Hermione vowed that she would tell him the truth -- one day. It had plagued her since she'd first imbibed the potion if she would ever act on those troublesome emotions, and she'd spent countless hours over the year which had passed wondering on that very topic. And, although she had little doubt that "one day" was very far in the future, at least she'd made a decision.   


Some day, Severus Snape would know how Hermione Granger felt about him.   
  
  


***

  
  


_Author's Notes_: If you haven't guessed it yet, I have Italian friends. And I have Italian friends who own a "Italians do it better" T-shirt which inspired Hermione's. They're so much fun, those T-shirts. I hope that I've answered one major question you might have had about this story because this story will culiminate in a confession from Hermione, in case you were worried that it wouldn't. As for your other questions, I hope to have them answered over the course of the story, especially the obvious ones. Please, read and review and stay in tune for more of the summer vacation to be covered in the next part.   


Thanks for reading!  



	12. Hours and hours of waiting

**Heart over mind : Part XII  
Hours and hours of waiting   
**

***

It was those lonely quiet moments which almost convinced him that he cared. 

Despite the rather romantic view of spying and double-cross work which most people seem to have implanted in their heads, Severus Snape had come to learn from first-hand experience that there was nothing glamorous about the old profession. Most people envisioned meetings in dangerous, exotic places and wizards with raspy voices or strangely-colored eyes; mainly, Snape's spying involved a great deal of listening, remembering, quick thinking and waiting. It had the proverbial cloak, but rarely the dagger.

The waiting -- it was the most difficult part, even in situations where he was far from immediate danger. One of the few true aspects of undercover work was the quick thinking, more so than the often-toted virtues which one might associate with such a dangerous field. But the advantage of that constant vigilance -- how Moody made Snape shudder at those words -- was the inability to think past the moment, to worry about anything more remote than the next few hours. In Snape's opinion, it was the _only_ advantage of his work; while Dumbledore and the others in the Order spent time strategizing and considering every aspect of every hypothetical situation, Snape allowed himself to escape within the adrenaline of his mission and then ignore much of it when he was no longer directly involved that danger.

It was a good coping system, one which had served him well through the First War and all these years into the Second one. It was only those times when he was forced to wait did the worries and doubt catch up to him -- those longer-than-reality spans of time in which he considered the bleakness that the future could hold if everything failed. Depressing, but it was what had weighed most heavily on him for decades: the abstract horror of a world where Lord Voldemort and his ilk held power.

As terrible as such images were, Snape had recently come to wish for those visions to once again trouble him, for lately he'd been plagued with much more specific concerns. 

Contrary to everything rational and logical in his world, Snape could not get Hermione Granger out of his thoughts.

Since Christmas, he'd spared her a stray thought on occasion, usually after having received one of her letters. It wasn't so preposterous to think of someone with which he had direct correspondence, he told himself. And, after the fiasco at Christmas, the officious Miss Granger had been foisted higher on the list of Likely Targets for Death Eater Attacks which he kept updated in his mind. 

So, of course, he'd thought of her, just as he had to think of Harry bloody Potter -- because she was a member of Light especially targeted by the Dark against which he fought. However, he could no longer blame her residence in his thoughts on such an impersonal excuse, a fact which irritated him greatly.

At the moment -- one of those lonely quiet ones which he so loathed -- Snape had not seen her face for almost a fortnight; duty had called him away from Hogwarts and he'd gladly went at its demand. The morning of his departure, he'd told her that business called him away and that she'd have the laboratory space to herself for a fortnight, if not longer. She'd nodded and solemnly wished him luck -- the concern in her rounded brown eyes having told him that Hermione understood what true business had called. 

Something about her eyes had spoke to him of something else as well: as much as he'd tried to ignore it, he no longer thought of Hermione Granger as only a former student or a body to protect. There was a lingering pang in his chest at their silent goodbye, a twin-edged sword of something-like-pain and something-resembling-pleasure at the mere idea that _she_ -- that anyone, aside from Dumbledore -- would worry over him or miss him while he was gone. The pain came from the knowledge that something as inconsequential as his own departure might cause her sadness. 

Damn bloody pang.

Snape had long since stopped seeing her simply as a former student. Even before her formal graduation, she had abandoned that particular label in his mind. If he had to pinpoint the moment in time at which the change had begun, Snape would have precisely identified it as the day she'd spent with him in the hospital wing during the spring of her last year. She'd shown him such kindness in that gesture that Snape had felt obligated to think of her in more genial terms than he did the majority of his students.

After Christmas, it had become something slightly deeper, more personal -- Hermione had been good company during her stay and she'd been a heady distraction from the portents which had been glowering over him since Halloween. And Snape _had_ actually missed her when she'd had left for home, damn the werewolf and his overly-polite hints to the conclusion.

The letters had not helped; or rather, they had helped, but only in deepening whatever tenuous attachment he'd formed to her. Snape had looked forward to her letters more than he'd ever admit to anyone, even himself. But, he'd known that it was only a superficial acquaintance, born between people of similar minds and disciplines.

Now, sitting in the cool darkness of his rented room with his mind ablaze with ruminations, Snape had to make the hard confession that it -- whatever one defined "it" as -- had changed once again that summer, weeks more of contact and conversation, discussion and dialogue adding to the strands of that immeasurable substance which constructed connections between two individuals. 

It had surprised him -- stunned him, in all honesty -- to realize that she actually seemed to hold some esteem for him. In Lupin's imprecisely impressionistic language, that she cared about him.

Snape wasn't certain of exactly what the werewolf had meant in using that word. In English, it could mean so much or so little when applied generally to one's ambiguous feelings. 

Yet, in those quiet waiting moments when she would not fully leave his mind, Snape felt as if he also cared -- about her and what happened to her.

And when an unbidden image of her lingered faintly at the edges of his mind, he was almost able to admit that what he meant by the term was more than simple concern or dutiful anxiety over her welfare.

But then the moment would pass and Snape would find himself focused on his mission, caught up in the life-or-death risks of the moment and it would all fade to the back of his mind.

After all, it wasn't as if it mattered -- there was no advantage to any kind of emotional attachment at such times of darkness as those which covered the wizarding world and Snape doubted that he'd live long enough to see that darkness banished a second time. His first survival had been miracle enough.

A depressing thought, yes. But somehow he found the thought of his death much less disturbing than thinking of Hermione Granger. 

Damn bloody pang.   


  
  


******

During the fortnight which Snape was absent from Hogwarts, Hermione found herself with more free time on her hands than she'd had since the summer had begun, although Snape's absence was only partly to blame. She'd finished up much of the research for her Divination project and the preliminary paragraphs of her final paper were already scattered over several sheets of parchment, leaving little need for anything more than cursory visits to the library -- particularly since most of the pertinent volumes lay in sorted piles in her guest chamber. Her experiments, also, had reached a point in their reactions where patience more than participation was required for their completions. Even with the time she spent writing and revising her Divination project, working with McGonagall through more arduous training and attending to some personal duties which she had been ignoring, Hermione still had more time on her hands than with which she knew what to do. 

For some unnamed reason, she felt uneasy about spending hours doing nothing important -- most certainly since it was those quiet moments of leisure which gave her mind the chance to wonder into the thoughts which she was steadfastly avoiding, the darker and worried concerns which she had for Snape. She knew -- _knew_ -- that it had been business for Dumbledore which had called him away and she understood, at least on a broad level, the kind of dangers associated with it. Before he'd the left, Snape had told her that he could offer her no definite time for his return but that he planned to be gone only for a fortnight.

When a fortnight and three days had passed without his return, Hermione had begun to worry in earnest, a leaden doubt settling in her stomach. The thoughts which crept into her head at her most unguarded moments left her both furious and terrified, almost physically ill with worry. If at any moment, she allowed her mind to diverge from its specific task, the horrible flashes of what could be happening to Snape would press at the corners of her vision, as if trying to force her to face them.

And, with every day past the fortnight, they grew steadily worse.

Desperate to fill her time with anything which would distract her, the young woman invented a half-dozen tasks to occupy her and her attention.

One chore in which she engrossed herself was communication with the world outside of Hogwarts; she'd become very much behind in her written correspondence. Letters from Harry and Ron, Ginny, her mother, her grandmother and her friends from Trinity had long went unanswered. With the extra time, Hermione had dedicated a few hours a day to re-reading the letters and answering all of them as dutifully as she could. As it always had been, the letters to her two best friends were much more conversational and superficial than the others; all that was required of her in response was general comments about her health and a few mentions of her research -- more than that and she'd bore them to tears. As long as she felt as if she was doing fine, they were satisfied. 

Ginny, however, had written a pile of letters, each one more emotional than the last. Hermione noticed that while Harry's letter had lacked much mention of Ginny, Ginny's letters seemed to focus on him, most notably on the fact that the two of them were having problems in their romantic relationship. Although she mentioned nothing more specific than "problems" such as "growing apart," Ginny still managed to fill feet of parchment with her prose on the subject. Not certain what kind of advice to give to the youngest Weasley -- after all, Hermione had never had these kind of problems -- she'd restricted her answer to vague expressions of sympathy and hopes that things would be sorted out soon. She very much hope that it would be sorted out to everyone's satisfaction. 

In comparison to Ginny, Elena and Maureen's letters were much easier to answer. The two of them were visiting Maureen's cousins in America and much of what they wrote were accounts of their various adventures in the entwined Muggle-and-Wizarding-world of New Orleans, Louisiana. Hermione had laughed at loud when she'd read of Maureen's sudden interest in voodoo. Apparently, according to Elena, the American had been burned quite badly by some mysterious male she'd had her eyes on, and now wanted revenge. Once she'd caught up on her letter-writing -- including a book-sized letter to her grandmother who was still immensely fascinated by Owl post -- Hermione had decided to invest her free time in another fruitful endeavor, one reminded to her by her mother's letters. Along with many of her reference books, Hermione had carried with her to Hogwarts the Muggle novels which Carolina had given her for Christmas, although she had yet to read any of them.

Unsurprisingly, reading held a special place in Hermione Granger's heart; for years she had used it as a tool of escape from some of the most stressful times in her life. When she'd first learned that she was a witch -- quite an event for a Catholic girl who'd recently been confirmed -- she'd tried to allay her fear of that new unknown world with knowledge, absorbing the information from the pages of the many books in which her parents had indulged her on their first trip to Diagon Alley. In the beginning of her first term at Hogwarts, before Halloween had brought Harry and Ron to her, Hermione's old copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ had acted as crutch and friend, helping her while away the hours and keep a brave face when she wanted to do nothing more than to cry and go home. 

On the fifth day after the fortnight's end, Hermione attacked the collection of paperbacks buried in the bottom of her valise with a steely determination to think of nothing for the day but the three titles she'd chosen at random.

The need for levity -- for anything not drowned in the same murkiness as her heavy thoughts -- drove Hermione outdoors, out from within the heavy stone and thick atmosphere of the Hogwarts castled structure. Allowing her feet and instincts to lead her, she emerged into one of the open courtyards, the sun-drench patch of openness a welcome relief and days spent alone in the dungeon or cloistered into an unused classroom. She noticed with no small amount of irony that the courtyard to which her feet had led her was none other than _her_ courtyard: it was the same place she'd come to read the books on the _hayam_ and Nadir'ah, where she'd talked with the headmaster about hearts and minds and love. It had acted again as her refuge that past winter where Snape had happened upon her and asked for her help in making burn salves during her forced stay on the school grounds after the Death Eater attack which had left her dorm mate dead.

But Hermione tried to ignore those associations as she moved purposely toward the bench -- _ her bench_ -- in one corner of the greened courtyard, focusing instead of how good the strong summer sun felt on her cotton-clad shoulders and her bare legs. In a moment of childish whim, she chose to spread her robe on the ground and sit on it rather than the chiseled stone seat. She curled her toes in the sun-heated grass, inhaled the rich scent-laden air which came from everything being in bloom before tossing her hair back away from her face.

Relaxing, her back supported against the cool stone of the empty bench, Hermione took another deep breath and delved into her books.

She'd conspicuously chosen the slimmer volumes, being in no mood to muddle through something as dense as _War and Peace_. She'd also chosen the more modern of the novels, wishing to escape into a world as Muggle as possible -- it was, after all, a mechanism for forgetting about the troubles rumbling around her in the wizarding world. Her first selection was a novel of post-WWII Japan told in such a poetic way that she was left with a lingering image of lipstick-stained tea cup long after she lain it aside. It plucked at her for a moment, the bittersweet quality of the tale, but she quickly moved to the next novel, which promised to be much more of a challenge.

Hermione was glad for that. A challenge was what she needed to focus her mind on things other than worry, anxiety and doubt.

A slim and obviously used paperback, she realized as she flipped through the first few pages that the copy of Albert Camus' _Les Justes_ which she held had been her mother's copy at university -- that fact explained not only the scribbled notes in the columns but also the fact that it was still in French. Both her mother and her grandmother had spoken warmly of it at Christmas, but she remembered that later her nona had teasingly admitted to never having read it.

"I was just teasing your mama," Rosalia had whispered conspiratorially in Hermione's ear over breakfast. "She's so silly, sometimes. And it's just too easy to tease her, no?"

Although the play was shorter than the novel, having to read it in French slowed Hermione's pace, a fact which did not keep her from making rapid progress. But it was engrossing -- the combination of the foreign language and the philosophical subtext at which her mother's school notes hinted held in her rapt attention. After the first few pages, she thought it to be a good choice to keep her occupied.

After the first act, she realized that it had not been an inspired choice.

As she finished the second act, she was struck with an unshakable sense of foreboding.

When the third act ended, Hermione was unable to stem the tears welling in her eyes.

And, as she rapidly read the fourth act, she couldn't help but echo Dora's -- the main character -- haunting words:

_Ah! Pitié pour les jûstes!_  


  


*****

Snape had always noticed a peculiar sense of unreality accompanied his return to Hogwarts after a long hiatus resulting from playing spy for Dumbledore. To return to somewhere as seemingly peaceful and calm as the ancient school grounds, to be enclosed within the austerity of its emptiness -- the abrupt change in physical situation seemed as physiologically trying as any curse or blow he might have fielded while on duty.

Coming home to Hogwarts always left him tired.

It was the kind of tired which registered as a dull ache in the muscles that came after long exertion. Marked by the absence of strain and adrenaline, it was the fatigue of rest after too long at toil.

And he'd been at toil for closer to three weeks than the two he'd planned.

As soon as he'd had time to converse briefly with Dumbledore and to settle his luggage into one corner of his quarters, Snape had immediately plunged himself into his regular schedule, taking no time to acclimatize or rest after his journey. There would, he decided, but time enough for leisure after he'd finished for the day. His late return to Hogwarts had played havoc with his plans but still he had obligations to fulfill before he could abandon himself to rest.

None of those obligations, however, called for him to be in his private laboratory at any time; however, it was the first place he visited after his debriefing with Dumbledore. The room was empty when he arrived, left as neat and organized as he might have. Perplexed by the fact that a certain young woman had not been in the laboratory, Snape next visited the library, only to be told by Madam Pince that Miss Granger had not been there in days.

As if he suddenly remembered the long night which loomed ahead of him, Snape abruptly ended his search -- although, he hastily reminded himself that it had only been for information and not the information's source -- and changed his direction back toward the dungeons. Instead of retracing his earlier path, he chose a swifter route, all the while as his mind was reviewing his plans and what he'd need for them.

It was by sheer coincidence that he was passing an opened archway which opened into one of the many Hogwarts' courtyards when he glanced out of the corner of his eye to notice an unusual dot of color against the monochrome of green. 

Snape paused, swiftly turning to better examine the misplaced splash of black and purple only to find himself faced with the object of his earlier search -- it was Hermione Granger sitting on her black school robe which was lain across the grass, her head tucked down as she poured over a thin book in her hands.

As he loitered in the archway watching her read, Snape was assaulted by a strong sense of déjà vu; he recalled with sudden clarity when he'd happened upon Hermione in a similar situation, the book on the _hayam_ clutched in his hands. 

He might have remained there, watching from the shadows or he might have retreated without ever making his presence known if Hermione had not chosen that moment to lift her eyes away from the pages she'd been reading and glance across the length of the courtyard, still unaware that she was being watched.

It was the movement of her head turning ever so slightly to sling her hair out of her eyes that allowed the tears coursing over her cheeks to be so obviously visible. 

Without thinking, Snape set out across the courtyard.

Still sitting on the ground and feeling immeasurably foolish, Hermione was wiping vigorously at her weeping eyes when she felt a shadow fall over her. When she realized that it was Snape who stood watching her with undisguised confusion written across his pale features, she was by turns surprised and mortified, the second emotion propelling her to scramble to her feet, brushing at the imaginary grass which had not clung to her bare legs or the back pockets of her denim shorts with the hand that wasn't still clutching the worn paperback.

"What's wrong?" Snape demanded to know, eyes traveling from her tearstained face down to her hands where which busy wringing the novel like a handkerchief. There was an edge to his voice, brought out by concern. Unfortunately, it sounded more like derision and exasperation.

"There's nothing wrong," Hermione protested, her voice wavering in the shaky way it did whenever she'd been crying. She brushed at her face with the back of one hand, feeling the little dignity she had left vanish as Snape grasped her by the shoulders and sat her down on the stone bench. He joined her on the bench, gently allowing his hands to ghost over her arms in a manner which forcibly reminded Hermione of how her mother had once checked her for minor injuries after a nasty tumble down a staircase. 

"If there is nothing wrong, then explain to me why you've been sitting here crying all day," he answered dryly, his arms now crossed over his chest as he waited for her answer.

"I haven't been crying all day," she rebuked, a frown creasing her features. 

"Miss Granger, your eyes are puffy and your face is red, along with all those other ghastly things which happen to a woman's face when she's been crying excessively. I daresay you've indulging for at least a quarter-hour, if not longer. So, I ask you again -- what ails you?"

"Nothing. It's nothing," she repeated, shaking her head and making dismissive gestures with her empty hand. When Snape's dubious expression remained unchanged, she sighed. "If you must know, it was because of this." She held out the paperback.

He took the novel in his hands and examined it. "You're crying because of a book?" There was definite exasperation in his voice but the concern was now detectable as well.

"Yes," she admitted, wiping at her eyes again before snatching her book away from him. She wanted to add that she'd also been crying over him, over thoughts of what could happen to him of which the novel had reminded her, but she held her tongue. "The story -- it was very sad. I couldn't help myself. It -- there's nothing wrong with crying over fiction, you know. It's cathartic." 

"Indeed," he agreed, the sharpness waning now that he was certain that something _real_ had not caused her grief. "And you needed your emotions purged? I do believe it's one's fear and pity which are released by reading tragedy, is it not?"

"So Aristotle says," she returned. "I really didn't mean to read something that would make me cry. My mother gave me that for Christmas and I had a bit of free time and.well, it was cathartic." She paused, as if unsure what words were correct to explain what she wanted to express. She swept her eyes out over the courtyard, letting them linger on the bubbling fountain. "But sometimes.well.sometimes it's easier that way."

"What do you mean?"

Hermione looked down at the worn cover once more. "Sometimes it's easier -- safer? -- to cry over what happens to imaginary people in a story than it is to cry over the things you're actually worried about. It would make it all too."

"Real?" Snape finished for her. She nodded gratefully. 

A moment of awkward silence passed before Hermione spoke again. "I didn't realize you had returned," she commented softly, the breeze pushing her hair into her eyes as she steadfastly avoided his gaze.

"I've only just arrived a few hours ago," Snape explained, the same breeze tugging at his billowing robes. "I'd just been returning to the dungeons after.after a meeting with the headmaster when I noticed you here."

"I'm glad to see that things turn out alright," she told him.

Her comment won her a sharp glance from Snape's dark eyes. "And what makes you say that it did?"

Hermione straightened her shoulders and met his gaze levelly. "You made it back safely. That's "alright" enough for me, Professor."

"Then, you are remarkably short-sighted, Miss Granger," he snorted. "There are much more important things to be concerned with."

"Perhaps," she conceded aloud, although silently disagreeing in her mind. 

To change the topic which he was finding most uncomfortable, Snape pointed to the yellowed paperback. "If I may ask, what was so sad about this particular novel you have?"

"Oh, well, actually it's a play," she began, trying to sort her thoughts into coherent patterns but failing miserably. "But -- what makes it sad? A great deal of things, really. But what I found to be so -- horrible -- was that Yaneck -- well, I mean Dora." She stopped and took a breath before trying to explain. Her words came out haltingly as she mitigated each word to ensure that she did not reveal too much about why she had been so personally affected the play. "Much of it is very political -- terrorists and socialists and the like, but.what I found so terrible was that there was one woman, Dora, who loved one of her fellow socialists but she lost him to the Cause -- he was executed. It makes her -- bitter, his loss does. Even if it was for something greater than either of them."

"It does strike me as a rather tragic tale, Miss Granger. Whyever would your mother want you to read something so maudlin?"

"It isn't maudlin," she objected, a half-smile tugging at her lips as she imagined what her mother's reaction to Snape's statement might have been. "It's Camus. It can't be anything but brilliant. If you don't believe me, ask my mother -- she loves his works."

Comprehension dawned on Snape's face. "Ah, I see. Of course, I'm not entirely certain who this Camus is, but I think I understand -- every parent attempts to force children to like what they do."

Hermione chuckled at Snape's rare admission to ignorance. "I think you'd like him, if you read some of his works. In fact, I think he'd suit you quite nicely."

"Miss Granger -- are you trying to imply that I'm maudlin?"

Another fit of laughter hit Hermione at the look on Snape's face, a look which she could read with surprising ease: she knew that he as teasing her. "Never, Professor," she assured him as she stopped giggling. "I don't think anyone will ever make that mistake."

"I should say not," he declared as he rose gracefully to his feet. Snape glanced uneasily up at the hot sun glaring overhead. "You'll have to excuse me. I have some important plans to finalize before this evening."

"Plans? What kind of plans?"

"The tedious kind," he admitted, sighing. "It's one of the downsides to being a renowned maker of potions -- one has to restock supplies much more often. And unfortunately, tonight is the only night I can procure some very important ingredients."

Hermione was suitably confused by Snape's qualifying remarks. "Why only tonight? Does the potion have to be made that soon?"

He shook his head, arching an eyebrow. "Don't you know what today is, Miss Granger?"

"Other than June 21st? Not really, I..." she trailed off, clearly lost in thought. "It's the night of the summer solstice."

"Five points to Gryffindor," Snape nodded wryly. "Tonight is the night of the Litha celebrations and it's a night known for particular potency when harvesting certain magical plants used in potions-making."

"And you plan on gathering them yourself?" Hermione wanted to know, fascinated. 

"Of course. I certainly can't trust a merchant to be truthful as to either or not his flax seeds were gathered on Midsummer, now can I?"

"I guess not," she said, her eyes dancing. "But it all sounds so interesting. You know, I've read a great deal about Litha --"

"Surprise, surprise," Snape interjected.

Hermione shot him a glare as she continued. "But I've never seen much about it in practical application. And Muggles don't typically celebrate it -- well, there's St. John's Day, but really I don't think it's quite the same. Unless you count those druids at Stonehenge but I'm fairly certain that that's all for the tourists."

Snape narrowed his eyes and focused them directly on Hermione, so intensely that she paused in her soliloquy. "Something wrong, Professor?"

"Not at all," he answered smoothly. "However...would you like to help me tonight with the gathering?"

Hermione broke out into a smile. "I'd love to. Do you usually do it alone?"

He shook his head. "In fact, I was leaving to arrange for some help, but I remember what you said in one of your letters and thought you'd be a perfect assistant for tonight."

Hermione didn't trust the slanted glare he was giving her -- it smacked of smugness and warned her that there was something unpleasant buried in his words. "And what was that, Professor?"

His lips twitched. "You mentioned in your Christmas letter that you liked working like a house-elf. I figured to give you another chance at it."

She rolled her eyes, leaning over to rescue her dark robe from the ground where she'd lain it. "How nice of you to remember," she said, faint sarcasm coloring her response.

"The front steps, Miss Granger," he ordered in his clipped teaching voice in an obvious effort to cover his amusement. "In about three hours. And I suggest you eat something before you join me -- it's going to be a long night." With another nod in her direction, Snape turned away and disappeared into the darkness of the castle's hallway.

Hermione, left alone on the bench in the hot afternoon sun, looked skyward toward the blue and white expanse, rolling her paperbacks up in a bundle with her robe. Some part of her was chagrined at having worried so much when Snape was late, while the rest of her was simply glad that he has returned safely, while another part wanted to laugh loudly in relief. She chose to ignore that impulse, settling for a smile as she stood up to leave the courtyard behind.

After all, she needed time to get ready for her evening with Snape. Not only would she need to eat -- _Maybe I can ask Dobby to bring me a tray..._ -- but she also needed to make a quick stop by the library before returning to her rooms. She wanted to do a bit of light reading about Litha before she went out to help Snape. It might come in handy, after all.

With her heart lightened and her relief almost tangible, Hermione hurried out of the courtyard, her heart as warmed by Snape's safe return as she had been by the bright afternoon sun. Unlike the poor, unfortunate Dora, she had yet to forget the summer -- and she was determined to never give herself over to that same eternal winter.  


  


***

_Author's Notes_: Apt title, huh? You wanted Snape POV, I give you Snape POV, as bad as it is!

The Japanese novel alluded to is _Thousand Cranes_ by Yasunari Kawabata, a book I recommend to anyone -- it's more like poetry than prose in some places. Of course, the play Hermione is reading is _Les Justes_ (The Just), a play that I adore and am currently re-reading in French. It's extremely difficult to find a hard copy of it in English, but I've added a link in my profile to an online translation of it someone posted if anyone is interested in reading it. The one French line I've included here is pretty simple to translate: Ah! Pity for we who are just!

I received so many questions that I can't remember them all, but here's a few general pieces of information. Yes, I plan to finish this story. Yes, I hope to answer all the questions I've left open such as Hermione's Animagus form. In the end, this story will be at least 15 chapters and an epilogue, if not longer -- if the mood strikes me, I may push it past the original ending I envisioned. I've decided not to make this OotP compatible, at least not right now. I may revise it once I've finished it but the first chapters will be left as is. The chapters written after OotP, however, will not directly contradict the new canon, ie. the character who died in Book 5 won't appear in any forthcoming chapters. But please keep in mind that this is a work-in-progress and tweaking might occur in some of the parts.

Up Next Part? The Midsummer activities of Hermione and Snape, complete with mistletoe, bonfires, and an all-night outing in concordance of the holiday. And, there may be poetry. Poor Snape, look what he's got himself into. _My_ maudlin and romantic side will be let out to have a bit of fun!

Thanks for reading and extra thanks to all of you who sent such encouraging words to me in the wake of my digital fiasco of losing this part and even before that. Although, I'm still not certain how encouraging "get off your lazy arse" is, it definitely caught my attention. 

If you are so inclined, leave a review.   



	13. After the glitter fades

**Heart over mind : Part XIII  
After the glitter fades   
**

***

In the whole of magical Britain, there were few who understood potions as intricately as Severus Snape. To most wizards and witches, the creation of potions was simply the business of tossing a few ingredients together in such a way that its recipe was fulfilled and the desired result was achieved. On par, it rated slightly above many home-witches' cooking styles where stews came into being through a hodgepodge of available materials and with little actual thought into the process other than to hasten its completion.

Severus Snape had always disliked the analogy between potions-making and cookery. To equate the two was to simplify his trade to such a degree that it lost the complexity which had won it the name of "art" centuries earlier. If -- and only under the most dire circumstances -- Snape was forced to concede the similarities between cookery and potions-making, he preferred to liken the latter more to the methodical nature of baking than to the willy-nilly creation of simmering stews and sauces. At least in the realm of baking, a similar sort of process was discernible: the need to follow precisely the steps as outlined by the masters, for only was a master's knowledge of all the assorted nuances capable of creating the precise outline of instruction; a thorough understanding of the subtle interactions and reactions which each separate ingredient brought to the outcome, knowing innately each part's hinting flavors and how it would add to the overall taste; and a standard for excellence that believed that only the best and more pristine ingredients would make for a superior product.

Most witches and wizards rarely took the time to learn about the minute reactions between ingredients which happened on the most fundamental level of potions preparation; they never actually understood that the magic of the potion wasn't simply created from the correct mixtures of parts to form a whole, but that its magic was the culmination of dozens of different threads of magic twisting together under ideal circumstances to create something stronger and more powerful than themselves. And it was this omission which caused them to never fully understand the importance of ingredients in their collection, containment and use. 

Severus Snape, however, did.

He understood the importance of proper ingredient management and on a much more intricate level than most apothecaries who sold them or reapers who harvested them. There was a magic in each leaf, twig and berry -- and it was a magic which needed to preserved and contained in order to keep the ingredients at their most potent.

It was this depth of understanding on the magical qualities and nature of potions ingredients which drove Snape to his tasks of herb-gathering on Midsummer Night.

Of the ingredients he used which were grown, Snape relied on a combination of his own limited gardening abilities and the spoils of Professor Sprout and the efforts of her most advanced students. However, there were still some ingredients which could only be found in the wild or whose otherwise mundane magic was strengthened by growing in the fringe of non-magical thickets which skirted around the Hogwarts lake, as if the woods' vicinity to so strong a source of visceral magic as the Forbidden Forest heightened its own. 

Seated in his dimly lit office after having left Miss Granger in the outside courtyard, Snape delicately lifted a large curved blade from its chamois wrappings, carefully maneuvering its sharp razor-edge away from his fingers. He inspected its hooked edge critically, the fingers on one hand tracing along its flat planes in search of invisible nicks on the yellowish metal which might mar its smooth surface. Satisfied that none could be found to spoil its pristine state, Snape gently lowered the blade into the protections of the leather, then studied it for a moment, quietly contemplating on which of the numerous spells at his disposal would work most effectively on the pliant material.

With his ebony wand in hand, Snape was in the action of flicking his wand wrist to began a spell when the door of his office creaked open with no warning. Without waiting for the massive door to reveal his visitor, Snape sighed as he laid away his wand. "Good afternoon, Headmaster. Is there something else you required?" 

Even as he spoke, Dumbledore appeared, politely closing the door behind him as he stepped into the office. "And a good afternoon to you, as well, Severus," Dumbledore answered, his age-worn face much less troubled beneath his great long beard than it had been hours before when he'd received Snape's report from his latest mission. As always, the information -- as well as the method through which it had been obtained -- left a cloud darkening over the venerable wizard's face, as if only in those moments did the burden of his age, experience and knowledge fully weigh on him.

However, that weight seemed to have vanished; the headmaster appeared to be in his usual, subduely cheerful mood, gliding in his sky-blue robes across the cold floor and seating himself with the unaffected air of someone who'd actually been invited into the room.

Snape rolled his eyes at the subtle sarcasm. "As I said, headmaster, is there something else you require? Otherwise, I have a number of items left on my agenda to complete before nighttide."

"I _am_ aware of your plans tonight," Dumbledore reminded him gently. "They are, in fact, why I have stopped by. It is not I who require anything; however, I do believe you are in need of help for your gathering this evening? I've been informed that you've yet to arrange with the house elves how many of their hands you will need to help you with your tasks."

The dark-haired man had lowered his eyes back to the shimmering blade, still searching its edge for imperfections. "I have no use for house elves this year, Albus -- but thank you for your inquiry."

Dumbledore's eyes rose into the white fringe of his hair. "Oh? You've found a way to do it by yourself, then?"

"I have done no such thing," Snape replied coolly, his attention divided between the conversation and the blade. He flicked his wand with a precise snapping of his wrist, conjuring a small square of cloth which danced in mid-air for an instant before he caught it. He neatly folded the butter-soft swatch before slowly dragging the downy material down the length of the chine. "I have merely arranged for an alternate source of help."

"Yes?"

"I have arranged for Miss Granger to aid me this evening. I have no doubt that she'll be able to perform the house elves' task with little problem. It is but a small recompense for having had to deal with her this summer."

"Oh, I see," Dumbledore murmured, his eyes crinkling behind the half-moon spectacles in a way which meant that there was a smile tugging at his mouth underneath the beard. "I didn't realize that you had arranged this with Miss Granger. I wish you'd had mentioned it to me before leaving on your...work. I would have never troubled the house elves on the subject, had I known."

"I could not have told you before leaving, as I only arranged for her help earlier this afternoon when I happened upon her," Snape explained, the cloth now moving in small polishing circles. 

"Ah, of course. I should have realized that you would have immediately visited your laboratory after our conversation. Miss Granger has spent a great deal of time there this summer. It's little wonder that you saw her."

He shook his head absently. "I did go by the laboratory; however, that was not where I saw Miss Granger. I found her in one of the courtyards, reading."

"Reading?" There was a mischievous edge to the headmaster's voice as he made the innocent inquiry. Had Snape not been preoccupied with the hooked blade, his well-trained ears would have caught it.

"Yes, reading -- an author by the name of Camus. Muggle, of course. Seems to be quite popular with her mother."

"Well, now...I see." The headmaster settled against the chair's stiff back, his eyes sparking behind his spectacles and his face the picture of someone immensely satisfied with himself. "I must say that I'm glad to see that you and Miss Granger are getting on so well. It's nice that the two of you have become friends. "

"I beg your pardon?" Snape's dark head snapped up, the cloth abandoned as he eyed the headmaster in surprise. "I do not recall saying such a thing, at all."

"Yes, but --"

"Just because I have accepted her help in this manner does not mean that I can do more than tolerate her existence. In fact, had I more options of aid than mere house elves, she would _not_ be assisting me this evening. However, she does have more intelligence than the elves, if only just."

"Severus," Dumbledore chided, not having lost his spark -- much to Snape's irritation. "Are you certain that's the only reason? Of course she's more intelligent than a house-elf but...I daresay that I noticed that the two of you have spent a great deal of time together this summer. I had assumed that perhaps there had developed a friendship of some kind between the two of you."

"I find her less annoying than I did when she was a student," he admitted shortly. Snape paused in his reply to tap the cloth with his wand once more to see it transform into a long, rough-grained whetstone. He rose from his chair and grabbed the blade by its rounded end with one hand and the whetstone in the other. Angling the blade, he slid the stone along its sharp edge, the friction creating a satisfyingly grating sound. "However, I do not -- at all -- consider this development grounds for use of the term "friendship." It's ridiculous."

Dumbledore noted the tight lines creasing the young professor's face, the deep-set frown which spoke of some hidden tension. "So, you aren't the least bit fond of her, even after all this time?"

With the lightning reflexes which served him so well in the espionage profession, Snape had the tip of the scythe blade dangerously close to the headmaster's nose. "Albus -- pardon me but I am very...busy trying to prepare for this evening's gathering," he ground out from behind clenched teeth. "If you would be so kind...close the door on your way out." Snape lowered the golden hook into position for the whetstone's application, never once lifting his eyes from the stone which he held steady.

Recognizing the blatant dismissal, Dumbledore quietly left Snape to his business in the dimly lit office, shutting the door softly behind him in his wake. Once out of the professor's presence, the seasoned wizard tried little to stem the -- only slightly smug -- smile which had been threatening to engulf his face since the conversation had began.

Humming softly to himself, Albus left the dungeons, the merry tune on his lips a symbol of the burgeoning hope in his old heart.   
  
  


*****

For reasons which he were unable to delineate, Snape was unaccustomedly vexed by his enigmatic discussion with the headmaster. While nothing discussed was of import and while irritation with Dumbledore had become a daily occurrence during his tenure at Hogwarts, he could find nothing within the discussion which warranted such a strong reaction. So the headmaster had been trying -- as usual -- to force him into making nice with Granger, no doubt in some misguided Dumbledorian attempt at helping him. Over the years, Snape had learned deftly how to escape unscathed from the headmaster's often lavish "good intentions."

So why did this instance bother him so?

Snape did not know and he had no intention of trying to decipher his superfluous reactions to Dumbledore's questioning -- at least not at that moment in time. If he chose to indulge in that brand of searching self-analysis, the only person who would suffer from the foul mood it'd create in him was Hermione and, his adamant declarations to the contrary, Snape was intelligent enough to admit that he rather enjoyed her company, enjoyed it to the point where he did not want to needlessly offend her. 

He enjoyed her company and, in some small way, he cared about her well-being. 

As Snape stepped into the rosy light of the late sun with his arms laden with herb-gathering gear, those two sentiments were all that he was willing to admit in connection to how he felt about Hermione Granger. As inadequate as the short declarations might have seemed -- even to himself -- they were the only ones which he could whole-heartedly accept without having a strange uncomfortable feeling sweep over him.

And in his opinion, it was enough.

And then something very strange and very commonplace happened: Snape finally caught notice of Hermione as she sat on the lower steps, obviously waiting for him. He was still several meters away from her and he stopped, almost gutted by a sudden realization.

He thought that she was beautiful.

It was an absurd thought, really. He knew it, even as he thought it. He'd seen Hermione Granger on infinite number of occasions; he'd become extremely familiar with how she appeared, having lain eyes on her almost daily for seven years when she'd paraded her intelligence and goody-goody attitude through his Potions classroom. And yet, Snape could not help but feel as if he'd never truly seen her before that moment. It reminded him of that morning two springs before when he'd found her in the courtyard, only to be struck by a different-ness in her countenance. Now that small difference which had first caught his attention was manifold, magnified until it was indelible.

The logical workings of his mind -- so sharp and quick -- noted the factual elements of the scene: she sat on the gray steps, legs slightly bent as she rested them on the lowest of the stone rungs. She was leaning forward, elbows hovering close to her knees as her hands were busy, fingers combing through the impractical mass of hair which fell loosely around her face and spilling over one shoulder. Its ordinary brown color was lit to a burnished brilliance by the dying light of the Midsummer sun, the tangled mess more like flickering waves than the piles of unmanageable frizz he knew it to be. 

And, there was her face -- slightly up-turned, eyes half-closed. Her face -- which he rationally knew to be rather ordinary -- was bathed in that sight-altering rose-lavender glow of setting sun and it was suddenly the loveliest thing he could ever recall seeing, from the rounded shape of her cheeks to the large, dark eyes and shadowed lashes.

She was dressed in blue, a color in which he'd rarely seen her. The blue sleeveless shirt and dark denim shorts were simple and serviceable attire, obviously Muggle in style and manufacture. Her arms and much of her legs were left bare, as well as her toes since she wore strappy leather sandals, also Muggle in origin.

It made no sense to Snape, this strange new idea that Hermione Granger was lovely; he was furiously trying to process it when her eyelids fluttered and she caught sight of him. She untangled one hand from her hair and raised it to motion to him in a wave of greeting. 

With that action, the spell was broken and time began to move properly once more. The heartbreaking perfection of the rainbow-hewn sky began once more to ebb into the encroaching cool violet of night, shattering the tableau which had frozen Snape in his tracks. With little more than a stern shake of his head at his own absurdity, he gathered his wits about him, silently mocking himself for such an indulgence of folly as that moment had been.

But he still thought Hermione to be lovely.

As Snape marched over to where she waited, Hermione quickly finished plaiting her hair into a thick, low-lying braid, winding a long satin ribbon around its end to secure it. Once Snape had moved within earshot, she raised an eyebrow in question at the long object which rested against one shoulder.

"A scythe, Professor? Would not that be a more appropriate prop for Halloween?"

"Very droll, Miss Granger. Very droll," he said as he drew near her, the long snath of the edge tool clasped firmly in his hand. In the other, there was a flat, open basket woven from flexible reeds and something Hermione recognized as being made of sackcloth.

She nodded toward the impressive item, her idle hand twisting in the fluttering length of ribbon as she spoke. "What's it for, anyhow?"

"Do not worry yourself, Miss Granger. As it is most certainly not used to cleave wagging tongues from the mouths' of annoying young women, you have nothing to fear from it." He held out the basket and sackcloth. "These are your tools for the evening."

She took them without complaint but kept her eyes glued to the scythe. "No, really. What is the scythe for? And...is that blade made of gold?"

He rolled his eyes. "Miss Granger, we will be collecting plants. How else do you expect to do that if there isn't some kind of harvesting apparatus involved?"

She shrugged, now eyeing the basket and sackcloth in her hands. "I didn't think much on it, actually. So, if the scythe's for cutting, what are these things for?"

"You'll use them to collect the herbs after they've been cut," he sighed, shaking his head. "Really, this isn't a very difficult concept. Perhaps I was mistaken this afternoon when I told the headmaster that you actually were more intelligent than a house-elf."

Hermione gave him a dark look, one which carried a hint of warning in it. She wanted to deliver a stinging reply but he stopped her with an equally quelling glare. "As much as I'm sure that I would have appreciated whatever you were about to say," he drawled sarcastically. "I think it's time we turn our attention to the matter at hand. Don't you?"

She agreed, hastily examining the tools she'd been given. Upon inspection, she realized that the sackcloth item wasn't simply made of sackcloth -- it was a sack or, more correctly, a large sling. It was made to loop over one shoulder and cut across her body diagonally where it hung low against the opposite hip, creating a cache in which she was to carry the harvested plants. It was a rather ingenious design, she admitted, but Hermione remained perplexed by the need for the basket even with it clutched in one hand as she followed Snape away from the school and down toward one of the patchesof trees which dotted the lake's far shore. 

"You didn't answer my earlier question," Hermione reminded him, trying to match his long strides. "Is that blade made of gold?"

"It is," he affirmed. "The kind of cutting we'll -- or rather, I'll -- be doing is only to be done with a golden blade. Otherwise, the effectiveness of the plant is lost." He glanced down at her and, as if noticing the harried pace she'd assumed, he slowed. "You must follow my directions exactly on the proper way to harvest or else we'll have wasted our time."

"Don't worry, Professor," she assured him, a bit breathlessly. "If I learned nothing else in seven years' worth of Potions, it was to follow your directions exactly."

"Is that so?" Snape gave her a look which clearly communicated his doubt. He took gentle hold of her elbow, steering her toward a lonely copse of trees illuminated by the last few streaks of light in the western sky. "Somehow, I never came away from classes with that opinion."

Hermione's soft laughter echoed through the quiet air. "I said I learned it, Professor. I never said that I ever actually did as I was taught." 

Once the pair moved into the forest, the remaining sunlight was swallowed by the tall trees in the throes of the summer bloom. Like living latticework, the reaching branches of the trees overlapped and interwined to create a seemingly continuous canopy over Hermione's head, the thinner and more tender leaves giving the golden light which passed through them an apple-green tinge. There were just enough tiny spaces in the branches' web to pepper light through the airy wood and Hermione was enchanted by the simple beauty of the small grove, taking a moment to enjoy the scenery even as she dutifully allowed Snape to lead her through the woods, his hand firmly clasped onto her arm.

It was a strange familiarity, she noted to herself. In all their years of acquaintance, Hermione could rarely remember Snape actually laying hands on her; since her seventh year, she could hardly recall more than five instances during which he'd voluntarily touched her. As uncommon as the occurrence was, it was one which Hermione welcomed.

Finally, once they were so deep into the trees that only a dusting of natural light lit their way, Snape stopped before a massive oak tree, one that looked as if it might have been there since the school's foundation. Hermione glanced up into its dense crown-spread appreciatively while Snapewalked around its perimeter, eyeing its spreading branches critically. She twisted the flexible basket in her hands, not entirely certain of what Snape was doing or why he was doing it. She was even less certain of what she was supposed to be doing. 

Becoming awkward and uncomfortable in the idle silence, she cleared her throat. "Professor?"

He did not bother to glance at her as he answered. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

"If you'd give me some directions, I'd be glad to follow them," she said, making an open, sweeping gesture with her arms, the basket clutched tightly in one hand. "Or shall I continue standing here, doing nothing?"

"A bit of patience, if you please," Snape replied, casting one more critical eye up into the leaf-covered branches before pointing straight up into them. "Do you know what that is?"

To see the "that" to which he referred, Hermione moved in more closely, standing at his side as she peered up along the oak's trunk. About half-way up the tree's majestic height, she saw a rather odd-looking clump of foliage, yellowish in color with thick, leathery leaves. The cluster hung amid the oak's native leaves, a large fluffy mass of trailing stems which contrasted with the dark bark and deeper green of the natural foliage.

"No," she admitted, still looking up at the cluster as she readjusted the strap of the sling on her shoulder. 

"That is mistletoe," Snape explained. "Oak mistletoe, to be precise. It cannot be cultivated by man and it's almost unheard of here in Scotland. However...it has grown here for as long as I can remember."

"Is that what we've come to collect?" Hermione wanted to know. 

"Indeed it is," he nodded. "Mistletoe is powerful in protective potions, works wonders in certain restorative draughts, and can be a very effective pain reliever. My stocks have been running low for months now. But tonight is the second best night for cutting mistletoe, only after Midwinter night."

"Hmmm," was Hermione's only reply as she lowered her eyes away from the high-hanging mistletoe. "So when go we begin?"

Snape gave her one of those half-amused, half-mocking slanted looks before reaching out to hand her the scythe. "Hold this, just for a moment. Do not allow the blade to touch _anything_," he warned.

Tucking her useless basket into her sling, Hermione took hold of the scythe's snath with the freed hand, watching curiously as Snape stepped away and shrugged off his dark robes which were followed quickly by his frock coat. Both items were lain carefully over the low-lying branch of a nearby tree. Now clad only in a pair of dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt, Snape rolled his sleeves back to his elbows before flinging an arm out to collect the scythe.

It was mid-way between that simple action when he stopped, suddenly yanking away from her as if he'd been burned. The sudden movement startled Hermione and she instinctively glanced down at his withdrawing hands, wanting to know what had caused such a violent reaction. But before he could get his left arm tucked away satisfactorily, she caught sight of what had bothered him.

The Dark Mark.

With his sleeves pushed up to a manageable position, his forearms were clearly visible, as was the darkly tattooed skull-and-snake symbol which marked one as a Death Eater. 

As quickly as she'd looked upon it, Hermione looked away from the mark, her eyes darting up to meet Snape's -- eyes which were as dark and intense as she'd ever seen them. Everything stilled around them, the susurrus of the forest the only noise as they remained frozen, gazes locked together as if some kind of unspoken conversation were taking place between them.

Snape broke the stalemate by reaching across with his right hand to cover the offending mark with the crisp fabric of the shirt sleeve. However, Hermione's hand intercepted his: she tentatively laid her hand on his arm, her fingers brushing against the smooth skin of the tattoo. Where her eyes still met his, they grew flinty.

"I thought you wanted this back," she murmured, pulling her hand away from his arm while offering the scythe to him. 

Snape nodded tightly, firmly taking hold of the snath. "Thank you," he told her, his voice unusually rough. He turned sharply and stalked toward the tree in typical Snape-fashion, although Hermione noticed much of the drama was lost without the robes swirling with him.

"I await your instruction, Professor," Hermione reminded him a moment later as she fished across in her empty sling for her basket. "And I am waiting to be told what to do with this thing."

"Over here," he instructed, pointing to a spot very close to where he stood and almost directly beneath where the mistletoe hung high in the oak branches. She complied, still mystified by what he planned for her to do, especially as she now stood so near him that she felt in danger of the blade he planned to use. Uneasy, she shifted her weight awkwardly on the heels of her feet.

"Now, Miss Granger, pay attention," Snape ordered, his voice very soft and very silky -- a deadly combination for Hermione's knees which already unsteady due to their close physical proximity. "I will use this" -- the scythe, of course -- "to cut away at the mistletoe. I'll need you to use that basket" -- apparently, not so worthless as she'd imagined -- "to catch the sprigs before they hit the ground. Once they touch the earth, they are _useless_. And do not even attempt to use magic on them; it will render them equally useless. Just try to catch them in the basket, then stow them in the sack. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course. It has to be done the regular way," she answered absently, eyeing apprehensively the distance between the basket in her hands and the mistletoe while wondering in how straight a path the leaves would fall.

"The non-magical way," he corrected. "To some of us, it is not the "regular" way. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"Tut, tut, Professor. Your ethnocentrism is showing," she grinned.

Snape shot her another disapproving look but it was one she'd learned to ignore. "May we begin, Miss Granger? The light is failing fast."

She nodded her assent but opened her mouth to ask how he planned to do the cutting from the ground when his scythe was only as tall as he. She soon received her answer when the dark snath suddenly shot upwards, stretching its length to accommodate height at which the mistletoe clung to the oak. Snape held tightly to the scythe's stemmed grip and the end grip, directing its blade to slice at the hanging mistletoe. He buried the toe of the blade deep into the mass then pulled down on the blade in a precise movement which spoke of his deftness at handling the scythe.

Suddenly, Hermione felt herself being showered by the thick yellowy leaves; she lifted her wide, flat basket to catch as many of the falling leaves as she could but as many fell into her basket as did cling to her braided hair or waft further to the moss-colored ground. When the shower had stopped, her basket was piled high with sprigs and other bits of greenery.

Snape, still balancing the elongated scythe, watched her amusedly as she dumped her basket's contents into her sling and tried to pick the leaves out of her hair. "Have you the hang of it?"

"I think I've got it," she told him laughingly, tugging another bit of leaf from behind her ear. "Just stand under the mistletoe and let it fall over me. It's better than the last time I was under the mistletoe, at least."

"Last time? Do you make a habit of it?" 

"It was Christmas at the Burrow and George Weasley spelled a bit of it to follow me around. By the end of the night, I'd been kissed by every male member of the Weasley family -- and some, more than once!"

"I apologize. If I'd realized that you had had such a traumatic experience with mistletoe, I'd have never dreamed of subjecting you to a situation which would remind you of it. I can scarce imagine the damage that's been done to you psyche."

Despite the ease of the task, the gathering moved at a slow, halting pace of cut-catch-cut-catch. Every time Snape slashed at the mistletoe, a cloud of it fell down on Hermione who tried her best to catch as she much as she could. They worked in companionable silence, although Hermione grumbled a few times when Snape seemed to deliberately pull a few more sprigs down on her head while she was busy emptying her basket.

"You did that on purpose," she accused him when she felt a dusting of leaf-bits stick in her hair.

Snape looked smugly condescending. "It's the law of nature, Miss Granger. Leaves fall out of trees. You can no more blame me for it than you can the changing of the seasons."

By this time, the light had long since faded and the forest was shrouded in darkness. So would they have been had Snape had not acted accordingly.

"We should have brought a lantern," Hermione fretted, knocking away a leaf clinging on the hem of her shirt. "I'm not so sure that I want you to be swinging a blade 'round me in pitch darkness."

"Calm yourself, Miss Granger," Snape assured her, almost amused. "I have no intention of hacking you to pieces in the dark."

He pulled his wand from his pocket and -- while impressively holding the scythe with only one hand -- cast a spell. "Scantilla!"

From the end of his wand, dozens of tiny glowing balls shot out, swirling lazily through the air until they were evenly spaced around Hermione, Snape and the tree, emitting enough soft light between their numbers that a halo of golden light surrounded them. It was as if an army of fireflies had gathered to give them light.

"How lovely," Hermione remarked as a few of the firefly-lights danced around her head. 

When the next batch of mistletoe fell from the tree, the little lights swirled and zoomed about, as if tittering to themselves about the strange occurrence.

By the time Hermione's sling was full of leaves, a circle of missed mistletoe surrounded her feet and bits of it were still tangled in her hair. Many of the little lights had faded and the overall effect of their luminance had dimmed tremendously. 

"That seems to be enough," Snape observed, watching as Hermione tried to stuff a few stray leaves into the bulging sack. "I think it's time we headed back to the castle."

"Sounds fine to me," she agreed, adjusting the sling until its heavier weight was better distributed. "I don't think I carry anymore as it is."

Snape nodded, and tapped the end grip of his scythe against the ground twice in rapid succession. As if obliging an order, the scythe pulled into itself until it had shrunk back to a six-feet height. 

"Nice trick," Hermione remarked as Snape once again handed the scythe to her.

Snape pulled on his frock coat and robes, but did not bother to fasten the rows of buttons on his coat. "A simple set of spells placed on the wood during production," he explained breezily as he reclaimed it. "But, yes. It _is_ a nice piece of craftsmanship."

"You didn't happen to make it yourself, did you?" Hermione asked, mischief brightening her voice. "Because I don't think I've ever heard you speak so highly or sound so pleased with anyone's work other than your own."

"No, I did _not_ make it," he grumbled, his arm loosely around her back as he led her through the maze of trees. The little fire-fly lights which had not faded floated along with them, spinning through the air like their insect namesakes. "And if I've never spoken well of someone's work, it was merely because it deserved no such praise."

"Of course, that's the only reason," Hermione challenged playfully. "It has nothing to do with you being stubborn, condescending, spiteful and -- dare I say it? -- pretentious."

"I'm far from pretentious, Miss Granger," he rebuked smoothly. "I simply realize how capable I am and how incapable everyone else is."

"Of course," Hermione rolled her eyes. "It seems that I forgot delusional in that list."

Snape could not help but smirk. "I'll not argue the point with you."

"So, you admit you're delusional."

"No. I only mean to leave you to your own delusion."

"Hmph," Hermione replied indignantly as Snape chuckled at her obvious disapproval.

When they emerged from the clustered trees, the tiny lights disappeared, the last few that had remained with them flying away once the silvery light of the half-moon and stars lit their path. As they followed the line of the lake's shore toward the castle, Hermione noticed the breathtaking effect of the dazzling splash of stars spilling across the dark sky. There seemed to be so many of them here in the wilds of Scotland, but she realized that she'd simply forgotten how much of their light was blocked by the pollution of Muggle illumination sources. Even at Trinity, the university was so interwoven with the Muggle parts of the city that the sky was never as clear as it was at Hogwarts.

And enchanted light sources did not have the same effect on the night sky, as she'd learned in her one year of Muggle Studies. Therefore, the sky around Hogwarts was overflowing with sparkling pinpricks which spread across the blue in dizzying patterns.

Hermione smiled to herself as she appreciated the sky, suddenly reminded of a line from one of Maureen's favorite songs, one of the few lines not completely bungled by her American friend's atrocious singing and habit of spoonering words. "Like a diamond snake in a black sky," she said softly to herself, remembering the line fondly from one of those karaoke nights.

"Poetry? For me? I'm touched, Miss Granger," Snape deadpanned, glancing down at her in mocking amusement. "Extra points for including a serpent motif."

"Hmph," she said again, rolling her eyes. "It's not poetry and most certainly is not for you. Actually, it's a lyric from a song that one of my friends likes to sing." She glanced up at the sky again. "The sky is beautiful tonight, though. That's what reminded me of the line."

"I've never paid much attention," Snape replied, giving a cursory glance toward the glowing skyline. "I see nothing remarkable about the sky. It looks as it always does."

"It's moments like these which make me completely believe that you do not suffer from a literary soul," she shook her head, smiling to herself.

"Thank you," he remarked dryly, the castle's outline becoming sharper as they approached. "Come along, Miss Granger. We'll stow these away near the greenhouses."

Once they'd reached the school grounds, Snape pointed her to a small shed at the very back of the rows of greenhouses, a tiny shack full of gardening equipment. He expertly dissembled the scythe, wrapping the precious blade in a soft cloth and propping the stretchable handle in one of the shack's corners. Hermione disentangled the sling from around her body and handed it over to Snape. 

He quickly twisted the straps until the sack was closed, then hung the bundled herbs from one of the hooks which lined one wall.

"That's it?" Hermione asked when everything had been put away. "Nothing else to do?"

"All that's left is proper storage, but it can wait until tomorrow," he explained as he ushered her out of the tiny shed. "Thank you for your help, Miss Granger. I could not have done without you."

"Yes, you could have; you could have used house-elves," she reminded him.

"True. But it was a much more enjoyable experience with you as my assistant," he admitted, only lightly sarcastic as she looked at him in astonishment.

"That was almost a compliment, Professor," she smiled.

"And that was almost graciousness, Miss Granger," he returned sardonically. "You'd do well to learn more of it."

"I'll try to remember," she replied in a similarly dry tone. She shook her head again, still trying to dislodge bits of chopped leaves from her hair as she followed Snape around the castle grounds to the front entrance. Having abandoned a neater way to rid her hair of mistletoe, Hermione caught hold of the braid's end and yanked out the ribbon. She pulled at the braid until the hair became untwined, then shook out her voluminous hair, running her hands through it to free the last few tangles. 

It was amid those loosening shakes of her hair that her eyes caught sight of crackling spots of light dotting the darkened landscape of Hogsmeade and its environs. As much as the sky was strewn with silvery stars, the gently swelling fields which spread out below the castle's high perch were speckled with patches of glowing red-gold, presumably from the huge bonfires she'd read about being lit in connection with the holiday. In its own way, the flickering flames amidst the shadowed hills were as fascinating as the starry sky.

"How lovely," Hermione said aloud in an absent exclamation. She'd stopped walking as her eyes roamed over the fires, her vision finally settling on the brightest flickers which were coming from the faint outline of Hogsmeade town proper. 

Snape slowed when he noticed that his companion had stilled, turning toward her as he spoke. "I've already been forced to listen to you wax poetic on the beauty of the night sky once tonight," he reminded her.

"I'm not talking about the sky," she told him. When she noticed that he was looking at her, she pointed down the slope toward Hogsmeade. "I'm talking about all the bonfires."

"Well, it is Midsummer," Snape shrugged, eyeing her curiously. "It's traditional to light the fires."

"Oh, yes, I knew that but I'd never seem them before," she explained. "I've never been anyplace magical on Midsummer -- at least, no where that lit fires like that."

"Midsummer is very much an agrarian holiday," he said. "And very ancient. Hogsmeade is probably one of the few places where the fires are still lit by wizards. It isn't a safe thing to do surrounded by Muggles." He stood beside her, also looking down toward the small village. "They'll be at it all night. Drinking, dancing, carousing and keeping the fires lit. A great deal of wizards will come to town for the festival."

"You mean they're having a festival for Midsummer in Hogsmeade tonight?"

"I doubt they'd do it any other night," he quipped.

Excitement danced in her hopeful eyes. "Can anyone attend?"  
"Of course, anyone can attend. It's a public festival that's held in the streets of the village," he answered, his expression growing suspicious. "Although I don't see -- and just where do you think you're going?"

Hermione paused, already half-way down the sloping hill before looking back at him over her shoulder. "To Hogsmeade for the Midsummer festival, course. Where else you I be going?"

"You most certainly are not going anywhere of the sort," Snape declared darkly. "You are going back to the castle."

She rolled her eyes as she spun around to face him, wild hair flying around her. "I beg your pardon?"

"I do believe that you heard me quite clearly, Miss Granger," Snape stated. "I said that you are not going to Hogsmeade."

"And just who do you think you are to tell me what I will and will not do?" she challenged.

"As long as you are here at Hogwarts, you will--"

"I am here neither as a student nor as a ward, _Professor_," she reminded him tartly. "I am here as a guest of the headmaster;s and he made it quite clear that while I am here, my free time is my own. And I choose to spend tonight in Hogsmeade."

"It's too dangerous for you to go gallivanting around in the dark," he objected, taking two large steps forward to close the distance between them. "A young woman, alone...I know you have little, but try to use your common sense for once."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest and regarded him crossly. "I have common sense enough, thank you."

"I want you to listen carefully -- I am going to Hogsmeade. As you are intent on returning to the castle, I bid you goodnight, Professor." 

With a toss of her untamed hair, she turned to go but Snape's iron grip on her arm prevented any movement away from him. She gave him another cross look, glaring first at him and then down at his offending hand as if the mere force of her gaze could cause him to release her. Once his arm had clamped down on her, she'd expected another scathing comment about her intelligence or his position of authority; instead, Hermione watched as Snape's dark eyes searched her face more a moment before he closed his eyes and sighed.

"Very well."

"Very well?" Hermione repeated dubiously. "Does that mean that you'll _let go_ of me so that I may go to Hogsmeade?"

"It means that if you refuse to be dissuaded from this idiotic idea, then I have no other recourse but to accompany you," Snape said, the displeasure on his face testament to his distaste of the notion.

"Do you mean to chaperone me?" she asked suspiciously, tugging her arm out of his grip.

"I'm hardly concerned with any foolish adventures in which you care to involve yourself, Miss Granger," he told her. "As long as you are not threatened by death or serious bodily injury, I don't give a damn what you do."

"I didn't know you cared, Professor," she replied in a syrupy too-sweet voice, heavy with wounded sarcasm.

He gave her the one-raised-eyebrow for which he was infamous. "However...despite what the headmaster says about choices and free will, he'd never forgive me if I let you go off by yourself. No, I will suffer the questionable pleasure of the Hogsmeade Midsummer festivities and your company if only to save myself the lecture from Albus."

Hermione watched him sourly as she brushed at the mistletoe still clinging to her clothes. "Do you really believe that there's a good chance for trouble tonight? That...there will be some kind of attack?"

The twist of Snape's lips as he answered was wry, characteristically mocking. "There are things in this world to fear other than Death Eaters. Especially if you're a young woman -- alone, after dark -- in the middle of a revelry whose chief attractions are the consumption of alcohol and the act of setting things on fire. You'll learn soon enough that gentlemen are rare after a few round of pints."

"That is a lesson I learned years ago, I can promise you," she assured him, laughing softly to herself. She nodded her head in the direction of the village. "So, then? Shall we go?"

"No."

"But you just said--" she began to protest.

"Neither of us are appropriately dressed," he cut in curtly, surveying her critically from head to toe. "I suggest we take a few minutes to remedy it."

"And what exactly is considered appropriate?" she wanted to know, distrustful of the gleam of amusement she noticed in his eyes.

"In your case, anything that it isn't dirty and covered in leaf bits will do," he answered, looking pointedly at the smudges of dirt on her shirt and shorts. "We'll meet here, as soon as you're ready. And -- don't even think of leaving without me. If you do, I'll have no choice but to track you down and carry you back here myself, bound and gagged if necessary, at which point I will lock you in your room for the remainder of the evening." With that proclamation, he turned sharply on his heel and walked briskly toward the main entrance of the castle. 

Hermione, hands planted on hips, shook her head and laughed to herself as she watched his dark outline disappear into the school's interior. "Promises, promises, Professor."

When his faint outline was no longer visible, Hermione followed, wondering exactly what the evening held for her. It would be her first taste of a wizarding holiday all but lost to the Muggle world and one which was certainly not part of the upbringing she'd experienced as the daughter of two highly intellectual dentists. 

And, she'd be experiencing it with Snape. 

Despite the fact that she was silently cursing him for his arrogance, for his presumption and for his pretentious superior notion that she needed protection from a few pissed merry-makers, her heart couldn't help but skip a beat at the realization that he'd succeeded in insinuating himself into _her_ plans once again. It would be the third time in the same day in which he'd actively sought out her company instead of the reverse.

How easily, she realized, could the heart be given hope.  


  


***

_Author's Notes_: What a long chapter this turned out to be and with half of the night's fun still left. Next time, we'll join Hermione and Snape in Hogsmeade where there will be carrousing, there will be drinking, and...dancing, of all things. Oh, and a few familiar faces will make some cameos before the night is through -- after all, I've neglected poor Hagrid so badly in this fic. 

The lighting spell "scantilla" is a Latin word which means "to sparkle, glitter or glow" and its effect is basically borrowed from a half-dozen fantasy animes, such as _Ruin Explorers_, _Slayers_ and the RPG _Final Fantasy X_ and _X-2_.

The song lyric which Hermione mentions that Maureen likes is from two seperate Fleetwood Mac songs, "Illume" and "Destiny Rules." And good job to the reviewer who recognized that all of the chapter titles come from songs written and/or performed by Stevie Nicks. It was just a bit of fun that I decided on since she's my favorite artist and since her lyrics take up roughly about 15% of my brain's memory. 

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to one of my new betas, **Kel** who did the beta work on this part. Any problems still here are products of my own stupidity.

If you are so inclined, leave a review. 


	14. If Anyone falls

**Heart over mind : Part XIV  
If anyone falls   
**

***

As silly as the comparison seemed, Hermione couldn't help but feel as if she were once again fourteen years old, nervously perparing for the Yule Ball as she stood before the opened wardrobe of her guest chamber, trying to decide what she was going to wear to the Midsummer celebration in Hogsmeade. 

Precious minutes were wasted as she deliberated, wasted on something which she felt was actually very inconsequential. And with each moment that ticked away, she worried that Snape would not uphold his end of the compromise if she were to leave him waiting for too long. Yet, she continued to deliberate over what should have been an easy decision, all the while feeling foolish because of it.

As she'd hurried back to her chambers, Hermione had simply envisioned herself slipping out of the stained clothes she'd been wearing and into something clean but similarly comfortable and serviceable. But as her hand had hovered over a hanger from which hung a clean white blouse, she'd suddenly felt that plain attire at such an important festival would be out of place. As she'd racked her brains to remember if she'd read of any special clothing guidelines associated with the holiday's celebration, her eyes had glanced through the lines of neatly arranged clothes in the carved wardrobe until they had settled on something light-colored and half-hidden in one far corner.

Like a siren, the dress had called to Hermione, irresistibly tempting and faintly scandalous all at once. 

In fact, Hermione had long considered it as such -- if not scandalous, then inappropriate for wear anywhere outside the safe confines of her home. It had been a graduation gift from her aunt Sophia and its décolletage alone attested that it had been chosen by her orchidaceous and shameless aunt. The clinging cut and the sheer fabric of the dress only added to the obvious association.

Having an aunt like Sophia Morazzano had both its advantages and disadvantages.

Unlike her older, responsible sister Carolina, Sophia had chosen adventure over academics and had fled from home to find herself as soon as she'd been able. She'd traveled to parts far and wide and had had a dozen different occupations in as many years. In Hermione's mind, Sophia had always seemed larger than life with her flamboyant antics and devil-may-care attitude.

Those very traits were ones she'd bemoaned in her friends but ones she adored in her aunt. She had idolized the older woman ever since she was four years old when Sophia had arrived -- unexpectedly, of course -- on the Grangers' doorstep on summer evening, her arms full of the exotic gifts she'd acquired from a half-dozen different places.

But more than anything else, Aunt Sophia had taught Hermione about magic -- not the wizarding kind, but the special kinds of experience which the Muggles labled so. Fairy tales and imagination had always been Sophia's province, much more so than Carolina's. While the Grangers has always been loving and kind -- good -- parents, they'd never been ones for frivolity or flights of fancy. So, the role had fallen to Sophia and it was one she'd been born to play.

Once she was older, Hermione realized that Sophi's most appealing characteristic was that her nature was the the polar opposite of Carolina's. Although she loved her mother dearly, Hermione had learnt early that sometimes there were things that she could talk about with her Aunt Sophie that she could never discuss with Carolina. And Sophia would do things for Hermione which her mother would have never dreamed. The older she'd become, the more like an acomplice her aunt had become.

Carolina would never have bought Hermione her first trashy romance novel before she was not even twelve years old.

Nor would Carolina have sent to Hermione the lacy -- and racy -- lingerie which Sophia had purchased for her as a late Christmas gift.

And Carolina would have never bought her the dress that now teased Hermione to wear it.

Unfortunately -- or fortunately -- there was a bit of her aunt in Hermione, somehow existing alongside the stalwart dash of her mother which her own grandmother had always noted. And that recessive wilderness of the soul for which Sophia was known was sparking in Hermione, appealing to her dangerously provocative side.

It was that dash of Sophia, Hermione reasoned, which made her more Gryffindor than Ravenclaw.

Horrified when she realized that she'd spent nine entire minutes doing nothing but staring blankly into the darkened depths of the wardrobe, Hermione made a decision. 

Giving into temptation, she snatched the flimsy garment from its hanger and tossed it across the bed, the silken fabric an incongruous streak of pale color against the deep crimson of the brocaded bed coverings. She methodically shed her shirt and shorts, then used a damp washcloth to wipe any vestige of the mistletoe-gathering adventure from her skin before she slid the dress over her head and down over her curves, where it settled until the hem's lacy edge skimmed her calves. She paused in front of the mirror to adjust the microscopically thin straps which slipped from her shoulders with the barest movement.

She had a nagging suspicion that Sophia would have liked it that way.

Even as she frowned at her reflection, Hermione decided that she'd already wasted enough time without worrying about her hair or about any kind of cosmetics. Giving her hair a quick comb-through with her fingers, she shook the tangled mess out around her face and was content with the fact that it no longer resembled a mistletoe bramble. 

_Silly, vain and utterly ridiculous_, she chastised herself as she checked her reflection in the mirror again once she'd slid her feet into the same leather sandals she'd wore earlier. _Here I am, wasting extremely valuable minutes when I should have already been back at the entrance to meet Snape._

_And even if he's not there, I'm going to Hogsmeade,_ she declared silently. _He bloody well can't stop me._

But Hermione knew that as much of the fluttering anticipation in her stomach was about Snape as it was about the Midsummer festival. It somehow struck her as significant that the Midsummer festival and Snape were coinciding, something half-forgotten fighting to be remembered at the back of her mind. 

She shook that needling suspicion away from her thoughts just as she glanced at the clock and realized that it had taken her almost fifteen minutes to change -- an amount of time tantamount to an eternity for someone as efficient as she.

"Stupid, feminine, narcissistic conceit," she sneered at herself in a fair imitation of Snape before she gave her hair one last combing and dashed toward the door, tripping over a pile of books on the way.

She cursed -- in Italian -- as several books went skittering across the floor, but Hermione stooped to pick them up and placed them carefully on the desk. On top of the stack was the library copy of _A Book of Days, Witching Edition_ that she'd gotten to research Midsummer. She flipped to the bookmarked page on the holiday and was tempted to scan the cramped script in order to satisfy that tickle of curiosity which told her that she was forgetting something vital, something about the holiday...

Fighting the urge, she snapped the book closed and laid it on the desk as she headed toward the door. Hermione paused once more, wondering if perhaps she should bother with a robe. But since all she'd brought with her were the basic black robes she'd worn at Trinity, she decided against it. After all, there was no point in wearing the daring dress if she planned to hide beneath yards of black fabric.

Exactly twenty-one minutes after she'd reentered the castle, Hermione dashed out of her room to leave the enchanted candles to dim in her wake, intent on her assignation with Snape. 

And within the pages of the _A Book of Days_ by Rhea Runnymede, a very interesting paragraph remained unread:

_The playful nature of love and flirtation which is present at Beltane escalates into true passion at Midsummer. Couples who have made promises the year before around Beltane tend to make formal their ties at this time of year -- it is one of the most popular times for weddings. Old folklore tells us that the ancient magic of love stirs heavy on this night, and it is a night where certain feelings can no longer be ignored. _

For some, this makes Midsummer as dangerous as it is passionate...  
  
  


*****

Hermione was breathless by the time she reached the entrance of the school and any work she might have invested in her hair would have been undone by her hassled traveling. As she stepped through the heavy oak doors and onto the front steps, she glanced around, searching for Snape against the backdrop of the darkness.

She folded her arms over her chest and craned her neck around toward the direction from which she'd seen him emerge earlier that day, stretching onto her toes to try and see around the bend of the castle's architecture. Dejected when she neither saw the professor nor any indication that he was approaching, she sighed as she settled back squarely on her heels.

"Looking for me?" 

The deep voice rumbling from behind her startled Hermione, causing her to jump in surprise as she spun around. Of course, the voice had been enough to identify her companion and so she was nonplussed to find herself glaring up at Snape, who was watching her with unmistaken laughter in his eyes.

"Must you walk so lightly?" she snapped irritably, unfolding her arms to lay a palm against her heart. "You nearly frightened me into a heart attack."

"I shall endeavor to walk more heavily in your presence," Snape demurred, still enjoying her discomfiture.

"You do that," she shot back, although her irritation was abandoned in favor of astonishment as she stepped back to better examine Snape's attire. "You...changed your clothes."

"As did you. Astounding, Miss Granger, your mastery of the obvious," he said. "After all, it was the reason for which I delayed our going to Hogsmeade, was it not?"

"I just can't believe my eyes," Hermione explained, ignoring the jeering words as if they hadn't been spoken. A grin twitched on the corner of her mouth. "You...well..."

Snape straightened his spine and arched an eyebrow in inquiry. "Is there a problem, Miss Granger?"

"No, of course not," she assured him, still struggling to remain serious. "It's just that I never imagined seeing you in something so...so...well, so..."

"Casual?" he offered briskly.

"I was going to say colorful," she admitted, laughter in her voice as she continued to appraise him. "But casual works, as well." 

Truth be told, Hermione thought that Snape looked good -- while the word wasn't quite the one she wanted, it fit her perception nicely. Although the black frock coats and robes which Snape usually wore invoked a certain mysterious fascination, there was something differently but equally appealing about the loose dark-blue tunic over the plain black trousers. Though simple, the tunic looked to be of some kind of sensuous fabric almost like velvet and lined in thread made of actual silver, an expensive luxury in the wizarding world. It was certainly more casual than she'd ever seen him dressed, but Hermione found no fault with that fact.

"If you have finished _gawking_," Snape began, each word staccato in his precise tone. "We may go. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind about this dimwitted notion of going to the Midsummer festival."

"I haven't changed my mind," she stated firmly, much to his obvious disappointment. Hermione motioned out toward where the balefires sprinkled the dark countryside and where Hogsmeade lay in the throes of celebration. "Let's go."

The journey to Hogsmeade began in relative silence; however, Hermione's excitement grew as the pair neared their destination and she couldn't stop herself from speaking, allowing the inner energy to bubble forth in a litany of words which centered on her excitement which led into a discussion of her appreciation of the night-cloaked landscape and the Midsummer fires and how she'd finally noticed the heavy scents of summer on the air. When she once again remarked on the beauty of the night sky, Snape snorted. "Really, Miss Granger. Must we go through this again? It's little wonder that you prefer maudlin tales in literature."

"Do you find beauty in anything?" Hermione asked him, her question half-jest and half-exasperation. "I'm beginning to doubt that you do, except perhaps in potions."

"Then you'd be wrong," he told her, slowing his gait and looking at her strangely. She noticed a hidden depth in his dark eyes, something that spoke of mysteries for which she knew no answer. "I happen to find beauty in a great many things, though they are usually in unexpected places, ones which are oft overlooked by others." 

"Such as?" Hermione questioned, falling in rhythm with his slower steps.

Instead of answering, Snape took gentle hold of her arm and pointed her toward the fuzzy outline of the Hogsmeade train station. "We're very close," he announced as they cautiously descended the slope. "If you remained quiet for a moment, you might be able to hear the music at this distance."

Hermione nodded, grateful for the steadying hand against her back as she crept slowly down the sloping hilltop. If she strained her ears, she _could_ hear the faintest strains of music, something lively and spirited a pitch above the murmur of the crowds. Once the ground leveled near the train tracks, Hermione quickened her pace, her unwilling companion trailing closely behind her as she finally set foot on the main road of Hogsmeade town.

It was, Hermione reflected, much more than she had ever imagined. She was immediately reminded of illustrations from children's fairy-tale books: the robed villagers crowding the streets and the whole atmosphere alive with song and sound and light. 

In the empty lot beside the Three Broomsticks, there was a large bonfire crackling merrily, olivine smoke rising from the flames in winding ribbons. The pungent smell of burning herbs filled the air while the licking flames which consumed the oak and fir logs threw off the warm, golden light that pushed back the edge of the darkness. Of course, the light of the massive bonfire was not alone, as flickering torches also lined the street, wedged in between decorated wooden tables laden with food and drink. There were a dozen other kinds of stalls and stands but Hermione could not see them clearly through the thick throng of people that packed every available space. Some were laughing and talking, while others were dancing to the lively music she'd heard before, the energetic notes produced by violins and lutes which hung in mid-air and played themselves. Others were eating or drinking, or simply smiling as they watched the activity which surrounded them. 

Suddenly, the scene called up memories of her grandmother's stories about of her youth in Italy, of the great feasts which the different vineyards would held and the fun she'd had. If those fetes of old were anything like Midsummer in Hogsmeade, Hermione could easily imagine her laughing grandmother as a girl of her age enjoying such a festival.

Gentle pressure on her back pulled Hermione away from her open-mouthed appraisal. Snape stood closely behind her, so near that his breath brushed against her ear as he spoke. "Do you wish to stand here gaping all evening or did you actually plan on going into the town?"

She turned her head to give him what was fast becoming her usual look for him: a half-frown of consternation. "Of course I plan on going in."

"Let us go, then," he prompted, his hands on her shoulders as if to spur her into movement. "If I'm forced to be here, I refuse to do so by skulking in the shadows."

"I thought skulking was one of your best talents," Hermione teased as her impatient companion simply took her by the arm -- his fingers wrapped tightly around her arm just above the elbow -- and pulled her toward the celebrating crowds. 

As they neared the pub, she saw Madam Rosmerta smiling down at the festivities from where she stood in its entrance, dressed splendidly in brilliant red robes which showed as much shoulder as Hermione's Muggle dress. Behind her ear was tucked a blooming red rose and her pale hair was in bouncing ringlets. She waved at them as they passed, a mug of butterbeer in one hand as she talked prettily with a great hulking figure dressed in anoversized moleskin coat. The figure turned when he noticed that the barkeep was looking past him and he let out a great bellow when he saw Hermione move toward him.

"Hermione!"

"Hagrid!" she laughed as she was swept up in a one-arm bear hug which almost crushed her. Although it had only been a week since she'd had tea with him in his hut, he acted as if it had been ages, making a production of his welcoming embrace. However, his rose-tinged cheeks alerted Hermione that Hagrid had been drinking something strong -- she suspected Firewhiskey added to the tankard of butterbeer he clenched in his other hand -- and that he was pleasantly inebriated by this hour of the evening. 

"I didn' know yeh'd be comin' tonight," he boomed happily.

"Neither did I," she explained. "It was a spur-of-the-moment decision."

Hagrid's happy expression waned. "Yeh shouldn't be here by yehrself. 'S dangerous for yeh ter be out all by yehrself..."

"For heaven's sake," she rolled her eyes, knowing that Snape would be gloating that Hagrid had offered objections similar to his own. At the worried look on Hagrid's face, she hurriedly continued. "Don't worry, Hagrid -- I'm not alone at all." She gestured over her shoulder to where Snape stood, arms crossed over his chest and his face set in its usual stern lines.

Hagrid followed her gesture until he, too, saw Snape standing there. His large face rearranged itself back into a grinning example of happiness. "Ah, hello there, Professor," he greeted him. "Didn' know that yeh were here with Hermione."

"Hagrid," Snape nodded in acknowledgment.

"Well, then...nothin' ter worry about," Hagrid said to Hermione, smiling down at her. "From the looks o' it, yeh're in good hands."

"Absolutely," she agreed airily. 

"C'mon, yeh two," the half-giant invited, his one arm still engulfing Hermione's frame. "Best way ter start out is with somethin' ter drink an' Madam Rosmerta's offering up a-plenty."

The tables around the Three Broomsticks' entrance held not only rows of butterbeer tankards, but also small cups of hot cider and elegantly curved glasses half-filled with dark-colored wine. These stood beside an army of other glasses containing a variety of beverages which she knew to be served at the tiny inn. Although she longed for a butterbeer, Hermione decided upon a glass of the wine whose claret color reminded her of the wine she'd had over Christmas. She chose a glass from the line while Snape did the same, bringing the glass to her lips for a tentative sip of the liquid. Her nose was immediately bombarded by the overwhelming scent of spices -- she recognized cloves, anise and cinnamon -- and the texture of the wine as she swallowed was more akin to honey than to any vino she'd ever tasted. By the time she had taken two sips from her glass, there were tears in her eyes.

"Careful, Hermione," Hagrid warned as she deliberated on whether she wanted to try another sip. "That's special spiced wine an' it's a bit stronger tha' the Muggle stuff. Maybe yeh'd best stick with butterbeer."

"No, I'm fine," she assured Hagrid, who was once again watching her nervously. "It's different, but good. It just takes a moment of getting used to, that's all."

"Miss Granger, it's brought tears to your eyes," Snape pointed out reasonably, although he was faintly amused by the determination on her face. "Perhaps butterbeer would be a wiser choice."

"I said I'm fine," she reminded him firmly. "Let's just call it cathartic, hm?" As if to emphasize her point, she took another, longer sip, one which did not reduce her eyes to watering. Giving him a triumphant look, she turned away to chat animatedly with Rosmerta.

Snape shook his head, wondering if he'd momentarily gone mad to agree to any sort of compromise which had meant that he'd spend his evening in the midst of drunken revelers and smarmy vendors of worthless magical trinkets. As a younger man, he'd attended a lifetime's worth of Midsummer festivals and he had little desire to relive any of the memories which he had associated with them. Still...he refused to let his former student's impulsive curiosity lead her into trouble. He quickly drained his own glass of wine and was reaching for another when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that the Hogwarts gamekeeper was watching him with a very strange expression on his face. 

Snape looked away from where Hermione and Rosmerta were still talking and fixed his dark gaze on his colleague with such heavy force that it looked as if the half-giant flinched under the intensity. "Do you have something you'd like to say, Hagrid?"

Hagrid glanced over at the oblivious young woman with a paternal mixture of pride and anxiety. "I can trust yeh with Hermione, can' I?"

"I've been watching after her and her idiot friends for over seven years now. Surely, you think I'm up to the task for a few hours?"

He'd expected one of the gamekeeper's patented dumb grins and a bruising pat on the shoulder; however, he realized that his answer had the exact opposite effect when Hagrid's expression darkened until it was almost serious. "That's not wha' I meant," he shook his head sadly, as if Snape had misunderstood something elementary. "Maybe I should jus' say it this way -- yeh had best treat 'er alright."

To say that Snape was confused would have been an understatement. He was on the verge of snapping, "What in the bloody hell are you talking about?" at Hagrid when Hermione appeared, wine glass still in hand.

She must have noticed the awkward tension of the situation because she frowned ever-so-slightly. "Something wrong?"

"O' course not," Hagrid smiled at her, patting her on the head as if she were his favorite pet cat. "The professor an' me was jus' havin' a nice talk, that's all. Yeh enjoy yerselves, yeh hear?"

Hermione tried to nod from beneath the enormous hand on her head and managed a squeak of a response before Hagrid pulled away and moved into the crowds, somehow cutting through the milling bodies on his way farther down Hogsmeade's main avenue.

"So...what was that all about?" 

Snape sighed and shook his head, answering automatically. "I have no idea."

Hermione patted his arm in a friendly manner. "I wouldn't worry too much, Hagrid tends to ramble when he's been nipping into the Firewhiskey."

"I shudder to think of the amount of Firewhiskey that would be needed to inebriate him to such a point," Snape observed, still frowning thoughtfully.

Something about his matter-of-fact statement made Hermione giggle, although she quickly covered her mirth behind her hand as she fought to control it. When he looked at her inquiringly, she waved away his questioning.

"So, what were you and the good Madam discussing so energetically?" Snape asked instead, placing his second empty wine glass on the wooden table.

"Oh, I was asking her what one actually does at the Midsummer festival," she admitted.

"I answered that question before we even came," Snape declared, looking disgruntled.

"Well, I don't particularly consider "drinking and carousing" a fitting and accurate description," Hermione told him dryly. "Madam Rosmerta was kind enough to explain all the attractions to me."

"I have the distinct feeling that I'm going to be forced to experience all these "attractions," aren't I?" Snape sighed, dark eyebrow raised in speculation.

Hermione's good humor faltered. "Of course, you don't have to," she said, suddenly tentative. "You're more than welcome to go around with me, if you'd like, but you could always find yourself a nice quiet table in the Three Broomsticks and wait for me there. After all, you said you were only interested in protecting me, not chaperoning me."

He rolled his eyes, raising a pale hand to stop her rambling speech. "Miss Granger, I am perfectly aware of my options. However, I am also in little doubt that leaving you alone for even a few moments could result in disaster."

"Exactly what are you saying, Professor?" she asked, pretending to be affronted.

"Exactly what you think I'm saying," he stated, his own humor improving. "That you attract trouble like a flame attracts moths."

Hermione half-shrugged, rolling her eyes as her shoulders moved in the mockingly coquettish gesture. "Does that mean that you plan on chaperoning me all night?"

"In a word -- yes," Snape told her firmly. 

"Well, then, let's go," she smiled, "Because Madam Rosmerta told me that there's another bonfire on the other side of town and people are actually jumping it for good luck. That's something I really have to see." 

Snape feigned utter exasperation but allowed his companion grab him by the wrist and lead him into the jostling crowds which were -- in his vaulted opinion -- doing little more than drinking and carousing. While he doubted few people liked being pushed and shoved within the smothering confines of a crowd of people, Snape had a particular dislike for it. He'd never enjoyed being around a great many people, no matter how spacious the accommodations, but having to fight his way through the sandwiched bodies made the proximity of so many persons even more unbearable. 

Hermione, he noticed, seemed to enjoy the challenge of weaving through the other merrymakers -- in fact, she simply seemed to be enjoying herself. They had not made it as far as the post office before she'd halted in her quest to see the fire-jumpers. Instead, he'd found himself positioned at one of the white-draped tables heavy with food, being pestered into eating something from the bounty spread before him. Snape found it strange -- and, to some extent, amusing -- how easily he allowed the girl to order him around and how willing he was to submit to it. When she pushed a handful of strawberries at him with nothing more than a "Aren't allergic, are you?" before she helped herself to some, Snape had done little more than take the proffered fruits and enjoy the sweet taste of berries on his tongue while he watched indolently as she listened to the story of another young witch's colicky baby and nibbled on dandelion shoots.

As strange as it would have seemed to him otherwise, Snape wasn't particularly unhappy about his current position. He was, though, glad to know that there was little chance of Dumbledore seeing him and Miss Granger in such an intimate predicament; if the old wizard had, Snape would never be able to escape his exultations about his "friendship with Miss Granger."

Once Hermione had finished grazing on the salad greens and had told the young mother to try a Muggle product called gripe water, she motioned for Snape to continue with her through the crowds, still intent on seeing a few fool-headed wizards try to jump over a bonfire. Most of the crowds seemed to have similar ideas and the number of people flooding the way seemed to double, making any movement almost impossible. Snape was becoming more impatient by the second but all Hermione did was laugh good-naturedly when an obviously drunken man collided with her, almost knocking her off her feet. It was only Snape's timely invention which saved her: he reacted quickly, planting his hands firmly on her waist as she stumbled into him. She was still leaning against him as she tried to find her balance when the man stumbled over to apologize and did so in stuttering abundance under the malicious watch of the potions master before slinking away, severally castigated.

"That really wasn't necessary," Hermione pointed out as the pair watched the offender meld into the crowds. "He didn't do it purposely. And he did apologize."

"Drunken lout," muttered Snape under his breath. "If he can't take care to behave himself in public, then he need stay out of it."

Hermione simply shook her head. "If we don't start moving again, we'll be crushed in this crowd."

Snape, distracted by his dislike of unruly crowds and slovenly drunkards, paid little attention to the fact that he kept one arm loosely around her as they pushed their way through the crowds.

Hermione, on the other hand, paid the fact a great deal of attention.

At last, their journey ended at the end of the High Street where the crowds had gathered in a loose semi-circle and where the smaller bonfire was burning. She watched in undisguised interest as a handful of people -- mostly young wizards -- tried their luck at jumping the fire, though few were in actual danger of injury as they used a myriad of charms to protect themselves. Still, even without the risk of danger, it was fascinating to watch each hopeful approach the fire and first toss in a bundle of herbs -- she remembered reading about that and how it was for luck -- then, take off galloping toward the fire and try to hurtle over it. It was little wonder that a small hunched wizard stood ready after every attempt to rearrange the scattered logs and cinders with a grand sweep of his wand since most of the would-be jumpers floundered in mid-air, landing _on_ the fire instead of over it. 

"Have you not yet tired of watching these idiots?" Snape whispered in her ear after they'd seen a half-dozen attempts. "It's becoming rather redundant."

"It's not idiotic or redundant. It's tradition," Hermione whispered back, eyes watching the latest hopeful as he fell near where the two of them stood on the far side of the bonfire. 

"Are you a very fervent believer in tradition, Miss Granger?" Snape's smooth voice rumbled quietly, his head bent close to hers so that she could hear him under the roar and music of the crowds. 

She knew that there lay some mischief in his question, so she answered simply, half-turning to look at him. It was only then that she realized exactly how close he stood to her. "Some traditions over others," she managed to say. "Now, do shut it so I can watch."

"As you wish."

It was as Hermione turned away from him and back toward the bonfire that she saw another young wizard land rather ignobly, only he managed to actually make it over the bonfire before crashing to the ground. A roar of approval swept over the crowds as he clamored to his feet, waving energetically with one hand as he used the other to brush away ash from the seat of his brown trousers. 

Hermione was cheering as loudly as everyone -- except Snape -- when the jubilant jumper turned to bow dramatically in her direction. Stunned, she stopped clapping but cried out in delight. "Wyatt!"

The young man sought out the source of his name and when his eyes found Hermione's smiling face among the spectators, his large grin widened. "Hermione!" he exclaimed, rushing forward to throw his arms around her as she bustled through the crowds to his side. She returned the greeting warmly with a similar embrace, completely unaware that Snape was scowling at the pair as he watched them exchange pleasantries. 

"I can't believe you made it over the fire," Hermione laughed, speaking first as she pulled out of his arms.

"Me, neither," he admitted, also on the verge of laughter. "I wish Victoria would have stayed around to see it. But she said her nerves wouldn't manage it and disappeared up near Gladrags."

"Victoria's here? I'd love to meet her," Hermione told him. While she'd never actually met Victoria Gringle, she'd heard a great deal about the girl from Wyatt, who had told her before Christmas that he planned on marrying his childhood sweetheart. If her friend was to be believed, Miss Gringle was one of the loveliest and kindest witches on earth.

"She'd be thrilled," Wyatt returned, beaming. "She's always wanting to meet you since she's met both Maureen and Elena already. Of course, the fact she's read about you in _Witch Weekly_ probably adds to that desire, I daresay."

Hermione snorted, although good-naturedly. "I hoped you told her the truth about those awful articles."

"I told that whatever the articles said, that you were twice as bad," he teased. "If you'd like, you can go with me now to find her. She should be waiting for me by Scrivenshaft's now that I've jumped the fire and got myself a year's worth of good luck."

"That's fine," Hermione agreed, even as she twisted to glance over her shoulder, allowing her eyes to scan the homogeneity of the crowds. "Just -- let me -- I need to tell..."

"You came with someone?" Wyatt asked, genuinely curious. There was a teasing innuendo echoing in his words. "Now, that's something that I didn't expect so soon after...unless it _is_ Craig?"

"Craig? Of course not," Hermione refuted absently, still trying to find Snape in the crowd. _I thought he was right behind me..._

"Who are you here with, then?"

"Professor Snape," she answered without hesitation as she spotted him amongst the masses. Hermione realized as she waved her hand to gain his attention that he'd simply moved back from the front line of spectators, no doubt to give a better view of the fire jumping to those who actually cared. 

"Professor Snape!?" Wyatt's exclamation was both disbelieving and dumbfounded.

"A rare...pleasure to see you again, as well," Snape drawled dryly as he reached the pair. Hermione turned back toward Wyatt to find him nervously gaping at his former instructor. Obviously not even the causal nature of the meeting helped mollify the Hufflepuff's reaction to seeing the potions master with his university chum.

"Well, no need to ask the two of you if you remember one another," Hermione put in, amused by both of them.

"No, indeed. I remember Mr. Hartford quite well," Snape assured him. "Hufflepuff, 1994. Unusually skilled in Ancient Runes. Not so in Potions."

"Thanks, er, sir," Wyatt returned uneasily, surprised by the unusual civility in Snape's address. "Nice to see you again, Professor."

"I did not realize that the two of you were acquainted from Hogwarts," Snape commented to Hermione, relieving Wyatt of the burden of his black gaze. 

"Oh, we weren't," she admitted. "Wyatt just completed his last year at Trinity. We were re-introduced through a mutual friend."

"And did you study Runes at university?" inquired Snape, chillingly polite. Wyatt was under the distinct impression that his old teacher was being nice for Hermione's sake, a fact which mystified him.

"Languages, actually," he clarified. "I've mastered all of ones available for study at Trinity."

"Impressive."

Though amused by the stilted attempts at small talk, Hermione decided to save them from the awkward silence. "Wyatt wants me to meet a friend of his," she explained to Snape. "Why don't you head over to Madam Puddifoot's? I'll meet you there in a few minutes."

"May I inquire as to why you'd like to meet there?"

"Because Madam Rosmerta said that --"

Snape held up a hand to stop her from explanation. "Say no more, I understand completely." He pinned Wyatt with a scrutinizing look, mouth set in a disapproving frown. "Remember what I said earlier, Miss Granger. Moths to flames."

"I'll be fine," she told him exasperatedly. "It's only a few minutes, I swear. If I'm too long...well, I'll allow you to make good on your second offer of the night."

Snape knew that she was referring to his earlier threat to drag her back to Hogwarts bound and gagged. "Very well. But make no mistake about it. I have every intention of holding you to that."

"I wouldn't expect anything else," she grinned at him briefly before focusing on Wyatt. "Lead on to this paragon of witchly virtue!" 

As Wyatt pulled her toward on the quills shop, Hermione did not see Snape disappear in the other direction, all her attention centered on Wyatt's stunned monologue once they were out of the professor's earshot. 

"Snape! I can't believe that you're _here_ with ruddy Snape," he said, torn between amusement and the vestiges of disbelief. 

"It can't be that hard to believe since you just saw him," Hermione pointed out jokingly. "What are you on about?"

Wyatt did laugh fully at that. "The great Hermione Granger doesn't know? Or doesn't want to admit to it, eh?"

"What are you talking about, Wyatt? No more hedging," Hermione warned.

"I think I've finally sussed it out," he continued amusedly. "I mean, Maureen's been mad to find out if what Craig said about you pining away for some bloke back home was true and, I didn't really believe it -- not really, I mean--"

"And why were you and Maureen and _Craig_ discussing me behind my back?" Hermione wanted to know, stopping in mid-step to force her friend to look directly at her.

"Not me and Maureen and Craig," Wyatt clarified. "Just me and Maureen. Craig told her and she told me."

"So why were _Maureen_ and _Craig_ discussing me?"

"You're missing the point of this revelation, Herminoe," he informed her impatiently. "The point is that I've figured it out -- the man that you've got stashed back home is _Snape_!"

"What? I -- you -- Wyatt Hartford, whatever gave you that idea!?" she shrieked.

"Oh, come on, Hermione," Wyatt said, rolling his eyes. "It's as plain as the nose on -- well -- Snape's face, it is. A mysterious man you're pining for; all those owls you got from him during school, and now -- here, with him, at the ruddy Midsummer festival!"

"What does one have to do with the another?" she snapped.

"Midsummer? It's just the most important night of the year for love and passion and romance, m'dear."

"And here I thought that it was Valentine's Day," she muttered sarcastically.

"Maybe for kids at Hogwarts," he told her. "But Midsummer is the ancient festival of _looove_ in the wizarding world since ancient times. It's still one of the most popular nights for marriage ceremonies."

Hermione groaned inwardly. How could she have let _that_ important fact slip her mind when she was reading? "It's not like that," she contradicted, a bit dismally. "Snape's only tagging along with me because he thinks Dumbledore will skin him alive if he'd let me traipse around alone and something were to happen. I swear to you that I had every intention of coming here alone until he decided to play chaperone."

"Really?" At Hermione's vigorous nod, he sighed. "Aw, hell. And I'd finally thought that I had some gossip to give Maureen instead of being the last to know."

"Rotten luck," Hermione empathized insincerely. 

"Yeah, yours, too," he told her as he looped an arm around her shoulders and nudged her in the direction of Scrivenshaft's. "I mean, if you _had_ been pining for Snape and he'd come along with you to this thing -- to older folks, it's about as good as a proposal, you know."

Hermione buried that small part of her that was desperately hopeful that it might have meant more to Snape than simply a baby-sitting assignment, her logical mind firmly dousing that spark before it kindled to fire. Instead, she turned the discussion toward Victoria. "So, is that what this is for you and Victoria? An engagement outing?" 

"No, that was Beltane for us," he admitted, smiling the dopey smile which Hermione had come to equate with young men in love. "We haven't decided on a date quite yet but -- soon. Before the year's out. Personally, I want it to be sooner but her family thinks that this engagement's running too short." Wyatt looked as if he wanted to say more but his eyes lingered on someone a few paces ahead of them and he flung his arm up to wave frantically. "Victoria!"

In response, Hermione saw a shy-looking blonde smile sweetly back at him, mimicking Wyatt's raised-hand gesture. Hermione noticed that, like herself, Victoria was wearing a Muggle dress as opposed to robes, although the style of the other witch's attire was dowdyish in comparison to Hermione's more modern garb. Like Rosmerta and most of the other witches at the festival, she had tiny white flowers tucked into loops of her braided hair.

Hermione's initial impression of Victoria being shy had not been correct; while she wasn't overly outgoing, she had a quiet energy to her that reminded Hermione of Ginny and a wicked sense of humor ready under the surface of her composed demeanor. Friendly and polite, she had the good grace to look chagrined at Wyatt's teasing mention of her dedicated following of the Witch Weekly magazine -- much to Hermione's amusement -- and when Hermione offered congratulations about the couple's impending nuptials, Victoria thanked her profusely, the feminine version of Wyatt's sillily-in-love smile taking hold of her delicate features.

"I'm so excited -- no nervousness about it, really," she replied, color still high from the Witch Weekly comment. "I only wish that my parents weren't being so old-fashioned about it. They've been wanting us to wait until Midsummer next but I firmly refused. I don't really see the point in waiting in uncertain days like these...you understand?"

"Yes," Hermione agreed wholeheartedly. "I do."

Something in Hermione's -- or Victoria's -- face must have darkened because Wyatt frowned. "None of that, now," he chided. "This is a celebration. There'll be no moping around. Understand?"

"Yes, yes," Victoria complied testily, giving her fiancé a pointed look. "Fun, relaxation -- I remember." When she cast an exaggerated long-suffering look at Hermione as if to seek sympathy, Hermione couldn't help but laugh. Victoria Gringle had made a very good impression on her and she'd found herself approving Wyatt's choice.

Suddenly, Victoria looked quizzically at Hermione, tilting her head to one side as she did. "I just noticed that you've no flowers in your hair."

"So?" Hermione asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I spent the first half of the night getting plants out of it."

"It will never do," Victoria said brightly. "This is Midsummer. All witches should have flowers in their hair!"

"I'll manage, thanks," Hermione chuckled.

"But it's tradition, Hermione," Wyatt argued playfully. "Just wait right here. I'll be back in a trice." As Wyatt bounded across the street over to where an old witch had a small wooden cart overflowing with blossoms, Victoria called after him, "A clover wreath!"

A moment later, he reappeared with a circlet made of braided clover which he handed over to Victoria. Before Hermione could protest, the other young woman had her hands in her hair, rearranging the wild mess and fixing the wreath upon her head.

When she stepped away, she nodded satisfactorily. "Lovely, if I do say so myself."

"I'll take your word for it," Hermione quipped, glancing upwards dubiously as if she would see the wreath upon her own head. She _could_ feel the weight of the hair which Victoria had gathered within the confines of the wreath, though much of it still remained loose. She patted the wreath gingerly.

"Now, you're fixed up proper," Wyatt approved. "Even if it's only for Snape!"

"Oh, you're here with someone?" Victoria echoed, looking around. "Where is he?"

Hermione sighed, giving Wyatt a dark look. "I don't have a date," she told Victoria. "I have a chaperone, which is something else entirely. Speaking of which...I'm supposed to be meeting up with him over near Madam Puddifoot's."

Although Wyatt thought that Snape was best left to his own devices -- _Let 'em wait! It's not as if you're not old enough to be out without a chaperone_ -- Hermione felt compelled to keep her word. And not only because he'd threatened to drag her back to Hogwarts in chains, she chuckled to herself. No, Hermione could admit that she enjoyed spending time with Snape, even if he was under duress to do so. Shouldn't she take advantage of the chance? Her project _was_ nearing an end, after which she'd return home and wouldn't see him again for months, if she saw him at all. In these uncertain times, the future was not always guaranteed. 

Remembering Victoria's words, she shivered but firmly pushed away the cold grip of fear they brought her. It was -- as Wyatt had so eloquently stated -- Midsummer, a night for fun and joy and love.

For a moment, Hermione wondered what it would be like to be celebrating this festival as Wyatt and Victoria were, with someone who one loved so deeply that she was happily prepared to spend the remainder of their long lives together...

With a shuddering sigh, she realized she _was_ -- only it was depressingly one-sided. 

On this night, she could no longer simply live with her conflicting opinions about Snape. She knew, with the same clarity which she'd come to have on dozen less important topics, that she was in love with Snape, just as the hayam potion had indicated over a year before.

Hermione Granger loved Severus Snape.

What kind of insanity had taken hold to produce that situation?

As heady and heavy as the spiced wine had been, Hermione allowed the truth of her realization to sweep over her, suddenly dim to the carousing crowds around her and even to the friend who helped guide her through them.

While it had taken time and the ancient magic of Midsummer, Hermione's head had finally come to agree with her heart.  


  


***

_Author's Notes_: The scenes of Midsummer were based partly on research I've done, partly on the memories of some rural festivals I've been to and partly on imagination. I hope it seemed believable enough. The layout of Hogsmeade used in the descriptions was based on the drawn maps over at the HP Lexicon. 

The "excerpt" from the Rhea Runnymeade's book was actually summarized from The Witches Voice website entry on traditions of Midsummer, though I added some embellishment to fit the story.

Naughty!Aunt Sophia was great fun to think about. She comes very much out of my own experiences as I have three aunts younger than my mother and they've always let me do things I wasn't supposed to, like turn my hair orange when I was trying to bleach it after being forbidden to do so.

One more chapter of Midsummer to go! One more cameo! And more carousing, of course. And there's still dancing to come. And maybe even -- dare I say -- some romance?

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to my new betas, **Kel** and **Mel** (aka Nothing?) who did the beta work on this part. Any problems still here are products of my own stupidity.

If you are so inclined, leave a review. 


	15. Say you will

**Heart over mind : Part XV  
Say you will **

**------**

  


Before that surprising night, it had been almost twenty years since Severus Snape had last attended the Hogsmeade Litha festival. That fact awoke the specter of faded memories to his mind as he unconsciously recalled those past nights spent in midst the same crowds and jarring music. He'd hated it then, as well, but there had been little that Severus would not have done for his mother. 

For love of his mother, Snape had endured all of the old festivals of the Wheel of the Year, prodigiously going with her to every one of them which fell during his holidays from school. The night of the Solstice, though, had always been Euphemia's most favorite. He remembered once that his mother had remarked off-handedly that great deal of important events in her life had roots in Solstice: her birthday fell close to it; she'd met his father on one, then married him on another; and, when she'd said that it would forever be her favorite day because she spent it with him every year, the sixteen-year-old had went red in a decidedly unattractive fashion. But Euphemia Snape had simply laughed her quiet, tinkling laugh and hugged her highly embarrassed son and he'd forgiven her for the fact that they been spotted by the Potter family and their mangy, homeless mongrel who had taken the occasion to sneer at Snape and had spent the next semester ridiculing him for it simply because she'd been so happy in that moment. 

Euphemia Lovell Snape had had few happy moments in her life, her son knew, even if she liked to pretend otherwise. 

Now, twenty-some years after that particular Solstice, Snape hovered near the refreshments table which blocked the entrance to Madam Puddifoot's with a wine glass in hand, looking menacing, displeased and thoroughly unapproachable. Much to his actual displeasure, none of these conditions had stopped three different witches from asking him to join in the ridiculous dancing which was being done around the third Hogsmeade bonfire, the cacophony of violins, lyres and lutes more pronounced there than anywhere else in the town. Upon the first request, he'd politely refused and on the second, his response had been more irritated but still within the bounds of civility. 

When the third woman would not take the first two polite replies to her query as his final answer, he'd growled at her before marching off to help himself to another glass of wine. Using the shadows of the eaves as camouflage, he'd remained by the table with the plentiful supply of wine at hand to wait for Hermione's imminent return. 

It was only the intermittent annoyed thought of Hermione that interspersed his uncomfortable recollection of his mother and he was sorely wishing that she would hurry her return. Those very memories of what this blasted festival had once been for him were the sole reason he'd never come to another one after... 

He refused to analyze the fact that a declaration to which he'd remained true for almost twenty years had been forgotten in the face of Hermione Granger. He also refused to contemplate what it revealed about how he felt for her and how important she'd become to him. 

Wine, he'd learned, was extremely useful in smudging questions of import from one's mind. 

Snape was finishing his third -- or fourth? -- glass of wine in the last half-hour when he heard a shaking, crinkled voice bellow resoundly in his ears, "Why if it isn't Effie's little boy!" 

Even as he cringed at the sound of the voice, Snape was furiously protesting every word of the greeting, seeing as how he was certainly no one's "little boy" at his advanced age, let alone should his mother be so disrespected as to be referred to as "Effie" when graced with the elegant "Euphemia" for a personal name. Yet what he silently protested most about the whole exclamation was its very utterance, most specifically the woman who had uttered it. 

He flicked his eyes toward the direction from which the voice came and he sighed in when they came to rest on a short, squat old woman who he remembered vividly from solstices past. "Madam," he returned coolly, downing the last of his wine and reaching for another. 

The old, apple-faced witch grinned at him, clucking her tongue at him in feigned disapproval. "Now, is that anyway to greet your Grandma Ljalja?" 

Snape snorted, though the frown softened. "You are no more my grandmother than you are honest, you old swindler." 

"Grandma" Ljalja chuckled. "You had no trouble calling me that when you was but a child. I can barely believe that my little Severus is such a grown man. Last I saw of you, you were a scrawny boy of about seventeen, all knees and elbows. You've changed." 

While Grandma Ljalja thought that Snape had changed in the twenty years since she'd last seen him, Snape felt the exact opposite about her. She was the same as he remembered from his childhood: round apple-face creased with wrinkles and darkened by the sun to resembled tanned leather framed by short, wispy white hair peeking out from beneath her garish headscarf, a monstrous clash of colors which only matched her equally garish robes. There were the same overly large hoop earrings and the same dozens of beaded necklaces and even the same little pouches hanging from the same woven sash. Nor had her eyes changed -- clear, gray and shrewd eyes which betrayed none of her advanced age. 

"You've not," he replied honestly. 

"Ah, now, what a nice boy," she teased. "'Course, I could expect nothing else from a boy raised by dear little Effie." 

"Euphemia," he corrected, raising an eyebrow. 

"Look here, I knew your mum, years and years before you were thought of," she informed him. "And her name was Effie -- Euphemia was a horrible thing to pin on such a wisp of a girl and Effie suited her nicely. It means "star" in my native tongue." 

"Your native tongue is English, Madam," he reminded her archly. "Perhaps you've forgotten that I've known you for as long as I can remember and I know your game well, woman. Save your time and keep your tricks to yourself." 

The ancient witch laughed again, a raspy chuckle. "Always such an impertinent little brat, Severus. That hasn't changed, I see. Nor has that nose, now that I think on it. I had hoped you wouldn't cursed that man's ugly beak." Snape made no reply to her aspersions about his nose but he glared down at her from across its impressive length which only caused her grin to grow. "I didn't think I'd ever see you 'round here again, ye know. So many years and not one of you Lovells around. Didn't seem right. And, now -- here ye are. What's the special occasion?" 

Snape shifted his weight on his feet, glancing absently down into his wine glass. "I agreed to accompany someone to the festival. It would have been unwise for her to attend alone." 

"Her? Accompany, eh? Just some fancy words to say that you've got yourself a lady," she cackled, slapping him on the back with surprising force for someone as old and feeble as she looked. "About time, too. Not like you're getting much younger and you've never been much a looker, though your mind's keen enough. And you've got a nice pedigree, with Effie Lovell as your mom and at least those horrible Snapes were pureblood ---" 

"Please, no more flattery, Madam," he deadpanned, swirling the wine in his glass. "I may blush if you continue." 

Ljalja was unabashed. "She must be some kind of saint -- or a simpleton, more like -- to put up with your attitude, sirrah. Sarcasm is not an attractive quality and you've already enough working against you." 

"Don't you have a stall to mind? Customers to cheat? How about a mysterious magic stone to peddle?" 

"I've never cheated anyone in my life," she sniffed indignantly, though her sharp gray eyes were laughing. Snape realized that he'd never seen anything but mirth in them for as long as he could remember. 

He gave her look which clearly stated he disagreed. 

"But I do have a stall to mind," she admitted. "Just couldn't keep myself from coming over here to see you. This is my last year on the circuit. After the harvest, I'm giving up the road and no more peddling for me." 

Snape was genuinely surprised by that news; Madam Ljalja had been traveling as a peddler since his grandmother Lovell had been a young woman. "I never believed it possible," he told her. 

She ruefully rubbed a hand -- glittering with rings -- against the curve of her back. "I'm getting old, little Severus," she confessed. "Starting to feel weather in my bones the wrong way. I've been saving up and I've got enough to buy that old cottage on the old estate. Your cousin is letting me have it for a song and I'm going to hunker out me old age there. Peace and quiet and comfort for the rest of my days." 

"You'll never last more than a season," he predicted, giving her a reluctant half-grin that reminded the old witch of the boy she'd once known. "It'll be much too boring for you." 

She smiled fondly at him, real affection in her gray eyes. "I think you're right." 

Snape was about to reply when something caught his eye in the crowd, a face which seemed to stand out among denizens which surrounded it. He realized quickly that it was Hermione, obviously searching for him and looking a little uncertain. Snape noticed immediately the change in hairstyle and the white crown of clover surrounded by her tumbling, impossible hair, and he recalled with sudden clarity the two times that night he'd been struck by how pleasant a picture she made: first had been as she sat on the steps waiting for their mistletoe excursion and the second had come when he'd waited for her in the shadows of the front entrance and he'd caught sight of her speeding down toward him in that enticing dress. 

As if she could sense his dark eyes watching her intently, Hermione swerved her head toward him, hair flying and slinky dress slithering with her. Her eyes -- dark brown, he noticed, but bright -- locked with his and she smiled. 

For the third time in the same long day, Snape was made aware achingly aware of the fact that he found her beautiful. 

It was harpy-like cackle ringing in his ears that broke the moment and yanked his attention away from Hermione as she pushed through the crowds and back to the squat old witch at his side. "Ah, I see what caught your attention," Ljalja was chuckling, watching Hermione with sharp eyes. "Your young lady cometh. Looks feisty, she does. I bet she gives you a run for your money, that one." 

"I think you've formed the wrong impression about myself and Miss Granger," Snape protested, disbelieving that anyone -- even kooky old Grandma Ljalja -- would mistake his relationship with Hermione Granger as something different than what it was. 

But what was it, anyway? 

"No, no, I know when I'm not welcome," the Madam smiled. "You two have a nice time. And if you decide to buy your young lady something pretty, bring her my stall!" 

Snape abandoned his protest about his relationship with Hermione in favor of giving Ljalja that wry, sarcastic look he usually reserved for students. "I haven't been stupid enough to buy anything you're peddling since I was ten years old." 

The old woman gave another cheeky grin before she bustled into the crowds, disappearing in the mix of people who all stood heads and shoulders higher than she. And, as he lost sight of her, Snape reluctantly admitted to himself that he was fond of the old peddler woman who had been so much like a mother to Euphemia so many years ago. 

"Who was that?" 

Hermione now stood at her side, watching him watch the old witch jumble around in the crowds. He glanced over at her as she helped herself to another glass of wine. "It was an old acquaintance of the family," he answered, looking down at his own glass and wondering how many he'd had. "Haven't seen her in years." 

"Oh," was Hermione's uncustomarily quiet response and Snape was surprised when she asked no more questions but simply sipped at the wine, eyes affixed on some far-off point across the lane. Looking more closely, he noticed that her expression was almost somber and the lines of her face were stern; even her body language spoke of something wrong, her arms crossed her tightly over her body. 

Snape wondered blackly if that damned Hartford had done something to ruin her evening. Instead of asking that particular question, he settled for, "Is anything amiss, Miss Granger?" 

"No," she answered after a heavy moment, as if she were choosing her words carefully. Her eyes flickered over his face. "It's just that...let's just say that I've come to a rather startling conclusion and it's given me some things to think about." 

He saw the sliver of shadow in her eyes and took his time responding as he contemplated it. "It's much easier to think back at the nice, silent castle," he pointed out wryly, earning the soft laughter he'd expected from such a comment. 

"Nice try, you," she smiled, a little less shadowed. "But...I know what I plan to do about it." Hermione's spine straightened fractionally and she lifted her head determinedly as her eyes flickered over him once more. "I think." 

"And what is your plan of action, if I may ask?" Snape wanted to know, crossing his arms over his chest. 

There was something mysterious about the smile she gave him. "I'm sure you've heard, "gather ye rosebuds while ye may," haven't you?" At his nod, she continued. "Well, that's basically the plan." 

He arched an eyebrow at that, peering down at her. "You do know that that poem was written to entice virgins to become otherwise, do you not?" 

Her smile broadened. "I know, and that Robert Herrick was a charmer. In my case, however, I plan to take his advice a little more figuratively than that." 

But for all of her posturing, Snape could still discern some anxiety in her shoulders, something wound tightly without any discernible cause. Determined to aid her in moving past whatever had diminished the evening about which she'd been so merrily excited, Snape lightly wrapped his fine-boned fingers around her arm. "Come along, Miss Granger. There's someone that I'd like you to meet." 

For a moment Snape doubted the wisdom of introducing Hermione to Ljalja when the older witch entertained such delusion about his connection with his former student, but he realized that the peddler woman had a gift for blarney and an engaging personality he thought Hermione would find interesting. And, despite his slurs on her wares, Ljalja stocked all manner of interesting and unusual trinkets, guaranteed to capture the attention of someone as inquisitive as Hogwart's most knowing know-it-all. 

Hermione quickly acquiesced, ravenously curious as to who Snape could want introduce her. She was once again being jostled through the crowds but this time, as if still smarting from the last accident, Snape was being peculiarly protective as he navigated the crowds, tugging her across the lane and down past a number of stalls before they stopped at a small wooden cart stacked high with trinkets and baubles of all sorts: scarves, necklaces, bracelets, all manner of jewelry as well as small bottles of bright liquids, satin purses and loose gemstones which looked as if they'd been tumbled smooth. She was itching to rifle through a pile of interesting-looking quartzes when a round, leathery face appeared from behind a stack of handkerchiefs. "Why, hello there, young lady," she began amiably until her squinting eyes noticed Snape standing at Hermione's side. "Ah, if it isn't little Severus! So we meet again." 

Hermione couldn't stop herself from whipping around to look at Snape, wondering exactly how he'd react to being called "little Severus." Much to her surprise, he merely rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. 

"Little Severus?" she couldn't help but repeat disbelievingly. 

"I thought you'd enjoy that," he said dryly. When Ljalja chuckled, he pinned her with a dark look. "Mind yourself, Madam," he cautioned her. "Impertinence is not an attractive quality and you have so few." 

"Of course, _Professor_," Ljalja nodded mock-seriously, causing Hermione to laugh as well by the exaggerated wiggle of her white eyebrows. "Now, why don't you start showing some respect for your elders and introduce me to your pretty young lady here." Hermione bravely tried not to blush at the old witch's insinuation. 

"Madam, this is Hermione Granger, a former _student_ of mine," Snape said by way of introduction. "Miss Granger, this is Madam Ljalja, an old friend of my mother and my grandmother." 

"It's very nice to meet you, too, Miss Hermione," Ljalja answered to Hermione's politely formal salutation. "It's nice to see Severus with a nice young lady, too. Though one has to wonder about that school if..." 

"Ljalja..." Snape growled. 

"Anyway...see something you like, dear?" Ljalja made a wide, sweeping motion toward her cart. "Best magical talismans and amplifiers to be found anywhere in Hogsmeade and probably all of Scotland, for that matter." 

Snape coughed beside Hermione and while it sounded suspiciously like "fraud," Hermione ignored his and the peddler's flinty-eyed staring contest, briefly wondering if the old witch had been the one to teach the look to him. Instead, she rifled through the items which Ljalja offered for sale, fascinated by the minute detail of the embroidery on the beaded purses as well as the way the light from a nearby torch flashed across the smooth surface of the stones. That flashing quality of the light-play pulled her eyes up to the row of necklaces wrapped around a wooden dowel, a line of crystal and metal pendants on silken black cords. Hermione examined each of the stone pedants, the lot in a variety of different sizes and shapes and settings. As her fingers ghosted over stone she mentally rattled off their magical properties ..._Garnet, to banish fears; Tiger's eye, stability and strength; Peridot, banishes fear from the heart ..._

But the pendant which most caught her attention near the end of the line, wedged between a rope of baroque moonstones and a round hematite talisman. It was a large smooth amethyst, oval and cabochon in cut, set into a twisted silver backing. The stone was not like the vivid violet of the amethysts in her mother's earrings but a light, more opaque variety, a lavender marbled with veins of white. 

"The amethyst caught your eye, deary?" Madam Ljalja noticed, breaking away from her silent communication with Snape. "It's a grand piece -- you've got good taste. The amethyst is not only a lovely jewel but it's a powerfully magical one as well. Protects against evil, aids healing, calms the mind and strengthens the intuition." 

"It _is_ lovely," Hermione agreed, running a running over the stone's smooth cabochon surface. Snape remained silent, though Hermione felt him shift closer to her in order to look at stone over her shoulder. It made her glad for the cart in front of her because his mere proximity was enough to make her weak in the knees. 

"I'll give you a good price," Ljalja stated, crinkly old face creased in a grin. "You being Severus's..._friend_ and all." 

"I'm sorry," Hermione told her embarrassedly. "It's just that...I don't have any money. Well, I _have_ money," she hastily rephrased when she glanced back and saw the perplexed expression of Snape's face. "I just didn't think to bring any with me tonight. I didn't think I'd need it." 

The old apple-round face smoothed in sympathy. "Oy, that's a shame," Ljalja said. "I haven't seen a young lady whom the amethyst would suit more than yourself, Miss Hermione. Not to mention that I was going to knock off a galleon or two for you." 

"Thank you, anyway," the young witch said sincerely, reluctantly releasing the pendant. 

"How much, Madam?" Snape suddenly inquired, tone as dark and mysterious as always. 

Both women looked at him with surprise: Hermione's mouth made a little "O" while Ljalja looked again to be on the verge of a maddening chuckle. 

Snape glared at both of them cuttingly. "Well?" he asked Ljalja impatiently. 

She was smiling again, broadly so that she resembled a jack o' lantern. "For you, Severus? A mere pittance." 

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked him sharply. 

"I am purchasing this gewgaw with which you seem so taken," he informed her brusquely, opening the small leather pouch on his belt and retrieving a handful of coins. "I should have thought it obvious." 

"But really I..." Hermione trailed off, uncertain of what to say. She could think of little reason to protest when she was uncertain of why he was even purchasing it. 

She watched, surprised and silent, as he dropped the coins in the old woman's hands. Then she watched as Ljalja hurriedly plucked the necklace from the line of wares, dangling it by its ribbon cord for Snape to take. His pale fingers closed around the amethyst and he pulled it away from the old woman's grip. He examined the stone closely for a moment before he extended his hand toward Hermione, pendant nestled in his palm. 

"Well?" 

Hermione looked at him blankly. 

"It's customary for a young lady to thank a man when he buys her a gift," Ljalja added helpfully, leaning conspiratorially over the mounds of trinkets stacked on her stall. 

Hermione watched Snape's impassive face intently. "You actually bought it for me?" 

"I see no one else here enamored of it," he snapped, still holding out the pendant for her to take. 

She stared at him for a long moment, something firing deep in her eyes before she slowly lifted her hand as if to take the proffered trinket but she only managed to rest her hand atop his, amethyst trapped between. "I...I mean...thank..." 

Snape suddenly felt himself as inarticulate as she with the feeling of her hand resting lightly against his. It was as if he were burning at the point at which they touched. 

"Oh, you've made her speechless, Severus!" Ljalja chuckled delightedly, still leaning over her stall, breaking into the tense moment and dissipating the built-up emotions. "Just help her on with it and spare the girl." 

Hermione smiled wanly at him as she pulled her hand away from his. As per Ljalja's booming suggestions, the young witch turned around so that Snape was presented with a clear view of her back and neck, Hermione's hands having lifted away any loose hair. His able fingers were adept as they settled the pendant against the hollow of her throat, then gently tugging the ribbon around her neck to secure it. His fingers brushed over her skin and she shivered, all too aware of the sensation of him touching her skin, standing so close that she could feel the heat from his body against hers. 

His hands moved from her nape to the curve of her shoulders, signaling her to lower her arms, an action which brought a cloud of hair tumbling down her shoulders. His hands remained planted against her bare skin and his nose brushed against the tousled strands as he moved closer to murmur, "Does it feel secure?" in her ear. 

Hermione nodded, breath more rapid than the occasion called for, as Snape cleared his throat and stepped away from her, answering Ljalja's comments in his smooth, deep voice. The young witch was relieved that Ljalja asked her nothing; her mind was still reeling from the sheer memory of Snape's hands on her bare shoulders and that fact both frightened and intrigued her with the same nagging question: if something so causal would do this to her, what would it be like if he were to kiss her? 

By the time that Hermione had collected herself to the point of complete comprehension, Snape was bidding farewell to Madam Ljalja who was still leaned over her cart as she waved them goodbye, shouting out orders for Snape to owl her and for Hermione to do the same since she was Severus's _friend_. 

Grateful to be articulate again, Hermione touched a finger to the heavy amethyst laying against her throat. "Thank you..." she told him sincerely, pleased with her ability to do so. In fact, she was feeling so much herself that she couldn't help but add, "...little Severus." 

To her surprise, Snape's response was a very quiet chuckle as he took her arm. "Mention that to anyone, Miss Granger," he warned smoothly, "And you'll only live long enough to regret it. Understood?" 

"Yes, sir," she demurred playfully. 

"Good," he nodded. "And you're welcome. Consider it a token of my appreciation for your aid tonight. You really are more intelligent than a house-elf." 

Despite the momentary shakiness brought on by her realization, Hermione's evening was shaping up quite nicely -- she was at the Midsummer festival, with Snape; she'd met Victoria, chatted with Wyatt and Snape had bought her jewelry. Considering her original plans for the evening, Hermione decided that she felt a great deal like some wizarding variant of Cinderella, only without the midnight curfew and the special slippers. 

"Have you finally settled your earlier dilemma?" Snape asked a little later as they slowly strolled back toward the bonfire where most of the dancers had congregated. 

"I've already told you that I'd made up my mind already and it was settled," Hermione replied, frowning slightly in puzzlement. 

"But it seemed as if that settlement was weighing rather heavily. It no longer seems so to be so," he pointed out dryly, almost bored. 

"Perhaps," she conceded. "The decision is still the same, though. Just had to let it sink in." 

Yes, she added mentally. She could do it -- live with it, just as she'd promised the headmaster she do, so long ago. Even if she now knew with all her heart and mind that it was love...and she'd simply learn to live with what she had of him, from moments like these. 

"Have you any more attractions to see tonight?" Snape asked her next, gesturing toward the twirling figures of the dancers. 

"I don't believe so," Hermione answered. "I've seen the fire-jumpers and the dancers. And -- thanks to you -- the venders." 

"You mean, charlatans," Snape amended, his point emphasized as they passed a rotund young lady dressed in green robes dotted with white cat fur who was squabbling with a swarthy turbaned peddler about the price of Perseus of Persia's Wand Crème, a cream which the turbaned fellow said increased the efficiency of transfiguration spells when used twice monthly. 

"_And_ I've eaten the traditional foods, got the flowers in my hair--" she paused to touch the crown of cloves -- "I believe that's everything. Even the wine." 

"Miss Granger, I've come to think that you have a rather over-inflated perception of the importance of tradition," remarked Snape as they stopped near his earlier hiding spot. He flicked the long dark hair from his eyes as he reached over another glass of wine. 

"Tradition is important," Hermione told him. "I thought all of the wizarding world felt that way." 

"And have you developed this attitude because you think it's an appropriate one for a witch to have?" Snape asked of her, eyes dark with seriousness. 

Hermione, taken aback, thought a moment before answering. "No," she said slowly. "Tradition is important for us -- I mean, Muggles -- I mean...for my family, some traditions are important. This isn't the same kind of important. I just wanted to do everything I could here because it's new and different, not because..." 

"...because you feel as if you need to," he answered for her. At her nod of agreement, he expelled the breath he'd been holding. "I sometimes have wondered if your over-exuberance was caused by such an impression. To prove yourself worthy of your place in this society." 

Hermione, noticing the grave expression on his face, found it more amusing than she should have. She blamed the wine. "Don't worry, Professor," she laughed. "The likes of Malfoy have not driven me into doubting my own self-worth. Maybe in the beginning there was a bit of that, but I've outgrown it." 

Snape made no reply to her comment, but his dark eyes swept the dancing crowds. "If you'd like to indulge in all of the traditional Midsummer practices, then you mustn't forget the one of the most important." 

"Which is?" she asked him innocently, hiding her grin behind her glass as she remembered Wyatt's missive on the importance of snogging to the Midsummer festivities. 

"Dancing," Snape motioned toward the dancers once again. "Most people do dance at least once on Midsummer." 

"That's one thing, then," she decided. "I've got to find someone to dance with me." 

"A task which shouldn't prove difficult if one doesn't mind imbeciles, drunkards or libertines as partners," he observed sarcastically. 

"A valid point," Hermione said, crossing her arms and tilting her head as if in deep thought. She looked at him slyly out of the corner of her eye. "Of course, you could always dance with me." 

Snape, looking horrified by the thought, gave her a disgusted look, one that she hadn't seen since she'd graduated. "Miss Granger, I believe that you have finally lost all control of your mental faculties." 

"Hermione," she said suddenly. 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"My name. It's Hermione," she told him stubbornly. "Do you think you could manage to call me by it?" 

"I really don't --" 

"Just for tonight," she mitigated. "For the next few hours, can I please not be called "Miss Granger?" It brings up bad memories about a certain teacher who used to torment me." 

The unhappy twist of his mouth told her that she'd won. "Do not think that this gives you any right to take the same liberties of familiarity with me." 

"Of course not, Professor," she rolled her eyes. "Heaven forbid someone get familiar with you." 

"As you say...Hermione," he deadpanned, his voice doing things to her name which she decided had to be illegal. 

"I still have the problem of a dance partner," Hermione reminded him. "Would it kill you to take a turn with me?" 

"In a word, yes," Snape replied, finishing his latest glass of wine before he locked his eyes with hers. 

She glared at him but raised her chin stubbornly. "If that's the way you feel, then please excuse me while I find a partner." 

Snape watched in rising alarm as Hermione strode away from him in that slinky dress, eyes focused on someone indiscernible. It was not until she reached a lone man standing across the street that he realized the identity of her chosen victim. Snape continued to watch -- inexplicably angry -- as she smiled at the stranger and began to talk, one hand fluttering toward the dancers as she spoke. He must have agreed with her dance request because a moment later the stranger had taken her by the arm and led her to the crowd of dancers where he swept her up in his arms as they joined the lively dance. 

His hand wrapped too-tightly around the stem of his wine glass, Snape observed the disgustingly charming scene Hermione made as she danced, laughing merrily as her partner turned her, his hands resting on her back. While his outward appearance made no change as always controlled and silent, tension brought on by a twisting wrench in his gut pounded in time of the music in the space behind his eyes and he felt some uncontrollable fury threatened to spill out of him in a far from dignified manner. Even as he felt it, Snape couldn't quite understand his wrathful state. It wasn't as if there were any reason for him to feel so...damn...infuriated...by the simple fact that Hermione looked to be having a wonderful time dancing with some stranger. 

He reasoned that it was simply his fatigue come upon him that made him so minutely irate and that his annoyance had chosen to direct itself at her because she was the reason that he was present at this forsaken festival which dredged up old memories and unfamiliar emotions when he should have been back at Hogwarts asleep hours before. 

When he saw the stranger's hand clench a little too tightly and lips come a little too closely to hers, something snapped. 

Amid the dancers, Hermione could see little of Snape and, although she peaked around for him occasionally, she was happily occupied with the task of not letting her partner step on her feet or she on his. They'd had a few rough patches and her partner was currently holding onto her tightly as the dancers around them collided and jolted them with little concern. 

"This is getting dangerous," she laughed as someone bumped them again. 

"No worries, love," he assured her, leaning low to whisper so that he'd be heard over the music. "We'll make it through yet." He seemed a nice young man -- he'd come with a group of friends and he, the perpetual wallflower of the group, had been flattered when she'd accosted him to dance with her. 

The first lively reel was dwindling into a second one when his face suddenly went pale and he looked absolutely terrified. Swallowing, he asked, "You don't have an angry father or a jealous lover 'round with you, do you?" 

"No," she asked, confused. "Why?" 

He didn't have a chance to answer before she was seized from behind by a iron grip on her arm and spun around so that she could see the seething figure whose furious expression made her heart stop cold in her chest. 

"Come along, Miss Granger," Snape told her chillingly, his hold on her arm almost painful. "I think you've had your dance." 

As much as she wanted to protest his making a scene, Hermione realized that no one except her partner noticed as she was dragged away, Snape cutting through the dancers with a maddening grace while pulling her not only away from the crowds but away from the bonfire and the buildings, out into the darkened shield of one of the nearby shops. Once they were out of sight, he released her and, by that time, her own temper had had time to quicken. 

"Just what exactly was that?" she ground out, her emotions a strange mixture of anger, confusion and a spice of hope as she recognized the harsh expression on his face as the one he'd had when he'd asked her of Craig, that black look the one she'd labeled "almost-like-jealousy." 

"It should be obvious," he sneered in return, arms crossed across his chest and his eyes like daggers. "The sole reason that I wasted my evening by coming to play chaperone was to keep you out of situations exactly like those." 

"We were _dancing_," she argued. 

"He was centimeters away from complete impropiety," he declared, expression still blackly furious. "Had that not been the case, I would have never dared to interrupt your _dance_." 

"Well, if you'd danced with me, we'd avoided this whole situation," she snapped irritably. "No one would question your propriety in such matters." 

Two years' worth of frustration was evident in her tone, so much so that Snape was startled by it. He was also uncertain as to how to reply to her sudden vehemence. They stood silently for a moment, their faces shadowed by the relative darkness of empty shops on whose other side the Midusmmer festival filled the air with light and sound. 

"I still didn't have my dance," Hermione finally muttered, one arm crossed over her body while her eyes remained glued to the toes of her sandals. 

"I thought that that was what you and that boy were doing when I interrupted," Snape questioned coldly. 

"We were trying. A few minutes of stumbling around before a priggish former instructor hauls me away is not what I consider a proper dance. And I dare not look for another partner; _you'd_ probably try and curse him for looking at me sideways." 

"No reason for melodrama, Miss Granger," Snape said scathingly. "I left your obnoxious little partner quite intact." 

"Hmph." Hermione tossed her head to shake some of the loose tendrils away from her face. After another stretch of tense silence, Hermione spoke softly. "You _could_ always dance with me and save me any more trouble." 

Snape snorted unamusedly, glaring at her through the darkness. "Haven't we had this discussion once before?" 

Hermione returned the glare with equal force. "What's the problem? Can't dance? Well, I can and it's simple. Shy? We'll stay here and no one will see you." 

"I am most emphatically not shy, Miss Granger," he answered icily. 

"Remember, it's Hermione," she reminded him, a grin threatening to appear on her lips. "So, if you aren't shy, is it that you can't dance? I scarely can believe that." 

The glower was so much more effective when coupled with the swirling black robes, she decided as she watched him. It'd come to the point where it had little effect on her. That thought alone brought the smile into full, teasing force. "Come now, Professor, it'll be our secret. I'll never tell anyone that I ever saw you dance. Just like I'll never tell anyone about Madam Ljalja's quaint little pet name for you."  
The music filtering from around the closed shops suddenly changed. Instead of the lively jig-like music which had been filling the air all night, the enchanted instruments changed to a slow, melodic tune, lovely but haunting and dreamy. The change in the music seemed to be felt in the air and Hermione noticed with trepidation that she'd moved much closer to Snape as she'd teased him, so close that now she could easily reach out and touch him. He seemed to be similarly aware as his dark eyes flickered between her face and where his pale hands lay against his folded arms. Deciding to make use of her purported bravery, Hermione took one more step toward him, leaving only a hair's breadth between them. 

"It's very simple," she said softly, whispering into the air. Despite the softness of her voice, she had little doubt that Snape could hear her words as his eyes followed the slow movements of her hands. She gently pried his arms out of their crossed position, taking hold of him by the hands, surprised that she met little resistance. "Just put one hand here," she instructed, guiding one of his hands to her waist. "And the other---" 

"I have a suitable grasp of the basic mechanics," Snape interrupted, his voice as soft and low as hers as he slid one arm around her waist and clasped her hand with his free one. 

"See?" Hermione smiled up at him, searching his inexpressive eyes with hers. "Much more tolerable than being called "little Severus," isn't it?" 

He grunted in amusement. "There are a very few things which are not." 

The music remained soft and enchanting and unbearably sad as they stood there, not moving with the music but neither moving away from the strange intimacy of the moment. With the same sort of desperate seriousness she had, Snape searched Hermione's face, his eyes finally meeting hers. 

"You are much more persuasive than you have right to be," he murmured very near her ear, his head bent so that his nose brushed along her cheek. 

"Don't blame me, Professor," Hermione told him, allowing her head to rest against him. "Blame the wine." 

"Because you drank it?" he wanted to know, his voice muffled by against her skin. 

"No, because you did," she smiled, reveling in the soft rumble of laughter the comment won from her. 

Even as the moment stretched longer with the length of the music, Hermione knew that it would soon be over and whatever spell that had fallen over Snape would lift. But, for those moments, she decided to savor it for as long as possible, tucking each detail into her heart for safe-keeping. 

While it wasn't quite the dance she'd wanted, Hermione was pleased nonetheless. 

-------- 

Pale morning light was peeking over the eastern horizon by the time that Hermione and Snape began their slow trek back toward the looming Hogwarts castle. Dawn had come and the revelry of Midsummer had come to an end, the crowds of people dwindling to only a handful as all the visitors made their ways home while the locals began the laborious but necessary task of returning the Hogsmeade streets to their former, more ordinary states. 

Tired, happy and both ready and unwilling for the night to end, Hermione trudged up the hills toward the quiet school complex, Snape at his most patient as he accommodated her slow pace, though she suspected that he was fatigued himself. The lovely wreath had long since been pulled from her tangled hair and she held it loosely in one hand as she walked, the other rising occasionally to touch the heavy amethyst at her throat. She steadfastly ignored the fact that neither of her dress's thin straps remained in their proper position and, after a night of fighting with them, she decided to admit defeat gracefully. 

The pace was unhurried and silence hung about them, the pair of them radiating tiredness and an unusual sort of awkwardness which Hermione had never associated with Snape. Still, the kind of awkwardness _was_ familiar-feeling to Hermione, as if it were a particularly difficult Italian phrase which she'd heard before but whose meaning she'd forgotten meaning. Finally, that first uncertain afternoon when Craig had appeared unexpectedly and asked her for a proper date came into her mind. 

Hermione smiled sleepily when she realized how much the long walk home had come to feel like the inevitable end of a first date. There was a difference though, she recognized. It reminded her of the summer after her first year at Hogwarts when her aunt had come to visit and Hermione had learned to love the lilting beauty of spoken Italian. While Sophia had breezed around the house, breathlessly speaking in Italian for no reason other than to hear it roll from her tongue, Carolina had always restricted use of her mother-tongue to times when she was infuriated, a fact which had caused Hermione to associate Italian with her mother's wrath. But with Sophia around, the same language had become to be something much more beautiful. 

There was no pang or twinge buried in the awkwardness for Hermione when she was with Snape as there had been with Craig; there was only a warmth and flutter of excitement when she felt Snape's reassuring presence at her side, or when his fingers laced over her skin to keep her from stumbling, something which had happened several times on the return trip. 

As the castle lightened with the sun's rise and sharpened with their approaching nearness, Hermione glanced over at Snape as she tried to think of something to say before he disappeared into the labyrinthe corridors of the dungeon without giving her a chance to express what Midsummer had meant to her. However, short of blurting out exactly how much she cared for him, Hermione was finding herself at a loss for words. 

"What a night that was," she decided upon lamely, grinning to convey that she understood the inanity of her own comment. 

"Yes," he agreed, the slanted twist of his mouth illustrating his amusement at her weak attempt to dispel the awkward silence. "Long, tedious, interminable --" 

"Always so disagreeable," she mildly chastised, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked around him to see sunlight paint yellow streaks in the rose-tinged sky. 

"I believe you meant truthful," Snape corrected as they found themselves on the front steps of the castle, the same place where they'd met twice that night. "I bid you goodnight -- or, rather, good morning, Miss Granger." 

Despite the obvious parting of the words, Snape seemed reluctant to actually step through the great oak doors, and Hermione took his second of loitering to her advantage. "It _was_ brilliant," she said, pausing before she continued. "Thank you," she told him sincerely, and Snape could not help but notice a strange glitter to her brown eyes, though he likened to blame it on the trick of the growing light. "For going, I mean. For choosing to stay with me...for this," she finished as she touched a finger to the pendant. 

"If I said the pleasure were mine, I'd be lying," he told her gruffly, fighting against the strange flood of warmth filling his chest. 

"And we could never have that, of course," Hermione rolled her eyes, giving him a moment's reprieve from the mysterious quality of her eyes upon him. Snape was surprised to find that he missed it more than he was relieved by it. 

"Of course," he echoed, nodding. 

Hermione smiled at him, eyes still glittering and dreamy with sleepiness. "Well, _I_ had a wonderful time." 

"And that was all the mattered, after all," he returned with faint sarcasm, his own slanted expression growing more amused. 

"Is that so?" Hermione feigned surprise, the unconscious movement of her head causing her hair to slither over one shoulder. A stray piece of white clover -- from the circlet, he assumed -- teased at him from where it hung in the disarrayed locks. "What was that bit with the dancing about, then?" 

"You are relentless," he accused, the smooth dark tone of his voice edged with humor as he gave into temptation and reached up to pull the petal from her hair. His capable fingers betrayed him, however, and they bypassed the white speck in favor of carding through the mass of wild, frizzy hair. 

Hermione smiled shakily, breath swallow and knees weak at the feel of his fingers combing through her hair as he shifted closer to her. "It's part of my charm," she answered softly, eyes searching his face, fascinated by the look of grave concentration as he studied the tendrils of hair wrapped around his fingers. 

"One can only presume..." he teased, arching an eyebrow as if to infuse the comment with more heat as he dragged his eyes from his hand as he untangled it, tucking the hair behind her ear. His black eyes trailed over her face and his sharp gaze met hers. 

Hermione had never thought of a look as something tangible before that moment, but she swore she could feel the aftershocks of their eyes' connection reverberate through her, trilling down her spine in a tingle. Somehow, without breaking that connection between their irises, she managed to discern the sunlight-smudged edges of his face, of the brows and the hawk nose and the thin lips. There was the utmost gravity in his expression, not harsh or cruel but neither soft in its character, but studiously pensive and -- perhaps -- there lingered a trace of awe in the eased lines around the mouth. 

His hand, which she'd forgotten while in the thrall of his expression, did not remove itself from her person once the fingers had smoothed the hair away from her face. Instead, the whole palm flattened and molded around the curve of her jawline, leisurely tracing over the soft skin until the pad of his thumb flicked across the swell of her bottom lip. 

Snape, still looking intensely pensive, leaned forward ever so slightly and Hermione -- though in a state so overwhelmed that she no longer knew night from day -- knew with absolute, maddening certainty that he was about to kiss her. 

Wondering if she would survive the experience but willing to die in the attempt, Hermione's eyes fluttered shut and she shifted closer, bringing them so close that she could feel the movement of his body as he breathed, the roughness of his tunic sliding against the softness of her dress and the weight of his body press even more near. 

She felt his hand slide again so that it was buried in the hair at her nape, gently realigning her face to his, tilting it upwards to meet his as he drew closer, closer until --- 

"Hermione? _Severus_?" 

The exclamation seemed unwillingly wrung from that familiar voice -- kind, hoarse and very unwelcome -- as if he had been wanting to remain silent unable to do so. Hermione felt the world jar around her as she jumped in surprise, Snape quickly withdrawing to a safer position an arm's length away from her before he turned to glare balefully at the shocked intruder. 

Hermione was too dazed for a moment to do anything more than stare at the new arrival before she called out, "Remus?" 

Obviously confused and wary, Remus Lupin once again began to approach the pair, his robes disheveled and dusty, both indications that he had traveled a great distance to find himself with them that morning. His face was open and pleasant, but there was no denying the appraising sharpness to his eyes. 

"Lupin," Snape acknowledged with a jerked nod of his head. 

"What are you doing here?" Hermione had the presence to ask without allowing any of her tumultuous emotions to color her words with accusation or ire. 

"I've come to make a report to Dumbledore," he explained, brushing at his dusty robes as he stopped, releasing the leather bag he carried at his side so that it thumped against the stone steps. "Arrived a bit earlier than expected, actually. I must admit to wondering why you two are...awake...this early. It's what? Just after four in the morning, I'd wager." 

"We've just returned from the Midsummer festival in Hogsmeade," she answered, half-lifting the wreath as if to prove her statement. 

If Remus had sounded surprised in his first exclamation, the shocked rise of his eyebrows was doubly so. "Really?" he asked rhetorically. "Have you?" He looked heavily at Snape, as if the surprise was directed at him more than Hermione. 

"Good night, Miss Granger. Lupin. If you'll excuse me..." Snape gave them no chance for comment before he turned swiftly on heel and stalked away from them, the sight of him disappearing behind the great oak doors making something cold grip at Hermione's heart. 

She stared at the door after it had closed as if she couldn't quite believe the sudden turn of events from one extreme to another in the span of a handful of minutes. 

"Hermione?" Remus's voice was still kind and hoarse, but no longer unwelcome as its unwavering sympathy washed over her and soothed the feeling of emptiness. She looked at him with her uncertain eyes glittering with brimming emotions. 

He grabbed his bag and placed a gentle hand on her arm. "Let's go inside, shall we? I think I need some rest before I meet with the headmaster and you look as if you need a bit of that yourself." 

She nodded dumbly and allowed him to pull her into the silent stone hall of the castle without a sound of protest, her heart still contracting painfully in her chest while her mind tried to sort through the events of the long, wondrous, unbelievable adventure that had been Midsummer. 

Hermione knew she needed to think, needed to understand, needed to analyze and postulate over what had and had not and might be. Even in a matter as illogical as love, Hermione craved to add logic to it. 

But, she admitted to herself as she collapsed on her bed, still in her glorious dress, what she needed most desperately at that moment was sleep. 

Giving in to the physical fatigue from which her mind did not suffer, Hermione did just that, one hand still clutched around the white and green foliage of her clover circlet. 

-------- 

_Author's Notes_: Midsummer is officially over. I hope it was worth the wait because I worked very hard on it. 

First let me apologize for any format errors and assure you that it is NOT my fault. Apparenly, ff.net continues to summarily and arbitrarily disregard certain formatting, no matter how perfect the HTML I use. 

The kind of amethyst Hermione receives is not the most desired, as the more violet and clear varieties are more popular. However, it was a kind of amethyst used in a great deal of Victorian jewelry and I personally think they're lovely. Amethyst with such qualities are called Rose de France. 

Not much else in the way of notes, but I hoped I satisified some of you with a tiny glimpse into the background I have in mind for Snape. I came up with it before I even started writing and originally had no plans to add it into the story proper. However, Ljalja's character was fun and gave me a chance to work some of it into the main plot. 

Anyone keep a record of how much Snape drank? I think I counted about seven or eight glasses mentioned explicitly in text. I think we agree that it was enough, anyway! 

Oh, and I couldn't help but write myself into the Midsummer crowds. I'm the one covered in cat fur buying Wand Creme! 

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to my beta, **Kel** who did the beta work on this part. Any problems still here are products of my own stupidity. 

If you are so inclined, leave a review.


	16. In the still of the night

**Heart over mind : Part XVI  
In the still of the night   
**

----

Despite the fact that she had liked Remus Lupin for as long as she'd known him, Hermione spent the last days of her summer stay at Hogwarts trying to decide if she loved him or hated him for his very inopportune appearance that morning after Midsummer. She oscillated frequently between the two poles, one minute certain that she'd kill him upon their next meeting before recanting her rash statements and vowing to thank him for unwittingly saving her from what might have happened.

Of course, then she'd remembered what _had_ almost happened and the whole spiral started again.

On one hand, Hermione was most displeased by the unlucky chance that Remus should stumble upon she and Snape only seconds -- _seconds_ -- before Snape was going to kiss her. 

Snape. Kiss. Her.

Just the thought of what that simple memory might have meant was enough to make Hermione want to throw her ink bottle across the room and scream about the injustice of life. First, she was forced -- _forced_ -- into taking the hayam potion which started the whole mess by informing her that she had no simple school crush on her mysterious professor but that she truly loved him and probably would until the day she died -- a day she was beginning to think was not as far off as she'd once thought. Then there'd been bloody Dumbledore and his lemon drops and his infuriatingly kind and wise manner, telling her not to lose hope and not to despair but nor should she ever disavow the truth of her heart's desire.

She'd borne it all quite well, she thought, everything from that horrible day in the classroom until the afternoon of Midsummer when she'd been so worried about Snape's tardiness that she'd become physically ill. She'd accepted her feelings and acknowledged them that Midsummer night, promising herself that she could live on whatever affection he gave her through their strange friendship and it would have been enough.

And it _would_ have been enough had she'd not felt her nerves crackle at the undeniable certainty that Snape had been about to kiss her, only to have Remus bloody Lupin ruin it with his honestly coincidental presence. 

Of course, at this point in her mental tirade, that little voice of reason in the back of her mind would clear its throat and, sounding uncannily like her mother, would remind her that perhaps the consequences would have been far greater and more dire had Remus not appeared when he did. There was as much evidence to support the idea that perhaps his timely arrival saved her from undue hurt and embarrassment, or even events far more dangerous.

With clarity granted only by time, Hermione knew that in the moment when he'd almost kissed her that she -- intoxicated not only by wine but by the headier spirits of the experience of Midsummer -- would have willingly submitted to anything that he might have suggested -- even if that something had been as innocuous as her retiring to her bed for a good night's rest or as temptingly dangerous as an invitation back to his for one-night assignation in the dungeons.

In all honesty, Hermione knew that she'd been quite ready to acquiesce to the slightest hint of seduction. She still found it strange how quickly her mind had thought of the possibility and silently hoped for it even as she felt as if she'd lost all ability to think properly.

What if that had been what Remus's intervention had prevented? Her logical side admitted that it would have not have helped her if such a thing had happened. It would have only made her feelings harder to bear, especially when she'd have had to face herself in the mirror the morning after.

It still smarted, wondering if Snape saw the almost-kiss only as a by-product of the combined effects of the wine and the night, nothing more than an impulsive and probably regretted moment. She didn't want to imagine how she'd feel if there had been a seduction and she'd had to face _that_ epiphany.

In the end, Hermione decided that indecision about such a complicated matter was forgivable and she settled for feeling something nebulous between resentment and relief in regards to Remus's timing. She _wished_ he'd been a few moments later, and that she'd had that kiss to remember but she was just as grateful that his appearance might have diverted her from any reckless decisions or actions taken in the heat of the moment.

Once she'd stopped wanting to simultaneously hit and thank her dear former DADA professor, Hermione's tedious mental analysis had a much more tender topic to mull: that of how to act around Snape now that she'd all but thrown herself at him on Midsummer night. On the immediate morning -- or rather, afternoon, when she'd finally risen -- she'd chose the time-honored tactic of avoidance. She'd had her meals in the her room and had not ventured any closer to the dungeons than absolutely necessary. It worked well, and had continued to work beautifully, especially since Snape seemed to be engaging in a similar line of defense. 

In a place as large and empty as Hogwarts in summer, two persons who had no desire to meet had no reason to.

It had been the second morning when Hermione had become suspicious that Snape was avoiding her just as she'd been avoiding him. Gathering her courage, she'd attended breakfast and no one had looked at her with even faint curiosity aside from Remus, who'd tossed her a concerned look over the marmalade. Afterwards, she'd clenched her hands and steeled herself for a trip to Snape's personal laboratory where her experiments awaited one final procedure before they would be ready for data collection. Though she agonized over any possible interaction, she'd decided she would not allow her own personal stupidity to interfere with her schoolwork.

Her worries had been in vain since Snape was nowhere around in the dungeons that afternoon. And he'd continued to be absent from the Great Hall, library and his own office and laboratory whenever Hermione might have been present. She'd begun to wonder if he'd taken to confinement within his quarters until she discussed the matter with the small portrait of a raven-haired witch hanging in a easily ignored niche of the laboratory whose subject assured her that the professor had merely "stepped out" only moments before her arrival.

With that bit of knowledge, she'd then begun to wonder if Snape had set up some clandestine network of informers to let him know when she was heading in his general direction. She certainly thought him capable of it.

While Snape was being almost obliging in his own decision to ignore her throughout the last few days of her visitation, Remus Lupin was not so easily discouraged. Though he'd accepted her attempts at dodging him for the first few days, the werewolf had refused to accept another one on the morning of the fourth day. Remus had appeared at her door and had suggested -- in the same way Dumbledore was known to do -- that she join him for a walk around the school grounds. 

Knowing that the discussion was inevitable and that perhaps speaking to Lupin could help, Hermione abandoned her diversionary tactics and agreed. 

The morning was still cool and dewy as she and Lupin followed the familiar path around the Hogwarts lake, one which she and Harry had walked innumerable times in their careers at Hogwarts and one which she felt certain Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs had taken in the course of their own seven years.

They walked slowly and Hermione waited miserably for Remus to speak. Though they'd become something like friends in the years since he'd first left the post of DADA professor, there was still a touch of formality about their relationship and Hermione prepared herself for the stern words she expected.

Remus Lupin, however, was nothing if not unexpected -- in his own quiet way, of course.

"I'm not going to ask you any questions about the other night," he finally said, his hoarse voice so concerned and kind that Hermione felt guilty for ever harboring certain homicidal thoughts against him. "I know what I saw on Midsummer and I'm intelligent enough to put two and two together on my own."

Hermione nodded, eyes downcast as they watched her sandals move against the green grass. 

"But I do wonder...are my instincts correct in assuming that..._this_ has been of some duration?"

Hermione slowed her steps, crossing her arms over her chest as Remus stopped to turn and looked at her. She glanced up at him, saw nothing but compassion in his expression, and sighed. "If what you're asking is about the hayam...then, yes. It's him. It always has been."

"Oh, Hermione..." Lupin sighed, his voice laden with sympathy. It reminded Hermione of her grandmother's teasing query as to whether she'd fancied this particular professor and again she wished that she had lost her heart to someone like Remus Lupin. Things would have been much more simple if she had.

"I know," she laughed shakily, forced and brittle. "Rotten luck of mine, isn't it?"

"Have you...does anyone else...?" Remus seemed reluctant to finish his question.

"Know?" she guessed, continuing at his affirming nod. "No, no one expect Dumbledore, of course, because he knows everything. I certainly didn't tell him, I mean..." Hermione trailed off, her expression somber. "I couldn't actually tell anyone, now could I?"

"I'm sorry," Remus told her truthfully. There was great understanding in the simple apology and she realized that it actually helped in its own limited way.

She glanced back up at him, smiling timorously. "Nothing for you to be sorry over, Remus. You didn't do anything."

Remus laid a gentle hand on her arm in a silent offer of comfort. "I will ask no more questions," he repeated solemnly, "but if you need to talk to someone, I will be here for you, Hermione. I hope you realize that."

"I know. Thank you," she added, gently pulling away. Though her eyes were dry, she felt compelled to brush at them with the back of her hand. 

Ignoring the defensive nature of the gesture, Remus smiled winningly at her as he motioned for them to continue their walk. They continued circling the lake, their conversation easy and unstilted as they spoke on inconsequential matters like books and plants and Crookshanks.

And slowly, Hermione felt the weight of dread which had been knotted in her stomach loosen slightly and she was lightened by the knowledge that she had someone who knew the truth, someone with whom to share the burden.

More than she thought it would have been, that knowledge was liberating.

----

As soon as he reached his chambers after having left Hermione to Lupin on the front steps of the Hogwarts castle, Snape had taken the precaution of closing the ornamental lock on the carved doors of his antique liquor cabinet before tossing the key to the very bottom of the lake.

Hermione Granger or no Hermione Granger, Snape should have never attended the Midsummer festival in Hogsmeade.

Though some would call it cowardly, Snape had decided the best course of action in the wake of the embarrassing events of that night was to refrain from any contact with Miss Granger for the duration of her visit at Hogwarts. Old memories of Midsummers past had led Snape to a serious overindulgence in alcohol, an act in and of itself outside of the proper bounds of behavior for someone of his impeccable lineage and background. The imbuement had caused the events of the night to become fainter and fuzzier with time and each new glass, until its end had become little more than flashes of color, feeling and fog.

Yet, not even this eased his regret because he knew that a few days' passing would allow him to remember whatever stupid things he'd said and done in those blurry, uninhibited moments.

He was doubly mortified by the fact that his lack of good sense had been witnessed by one of his former students and that particular fact sharply stung in his ego. So, Snape decided to punish himself further by refusing any magical methods to alleviate his hangover and to repair his tattered pride in the preferred solitude of his chambers. 

It wasn't until the fourth day of his self-imposed quarantine that anyone dare approach his personal rooms and intrude on that welcomed solitude. At first, he'd thought that the light knock had belonged to Dumbledore, but he quickly dismissed the notion because the headmaster rarely knocked and even more rarely waited for an answer before entering. 

He _did_ know that it was not Hermione who bothered him. He had it on good authority from the Lady Lovell portrait in his sitting room who'd spoken to the fresco of San Marco near a certain entrance that Hermione had not left the confines of the library since noon. He had checked the fact before going to his office since he'd had no desire to meet her accidentally as she visited her experiments in his laboratory. 

When another, more forceful knock sounded, Snape resigned himself to the fact that his unwanted guest had no intention of leaving and so wrenched open the door to find himself face to face with a politely determined Remus Lupin.

"Good afternoon, Severus," he answered pleasantly to the professor's growled demand of what he wanted. "I just decided to stop in and have a friendly visit with an old colleague. It is time for tea, after all." 

Never quite sure how it came about, Snape found himself having a cozy tea in his chambers with Remus Lupin. The werewolf made quite a spectacle as he stubbornly clung to the "friendly visit" description of his excuse by chatting about the weather ("quite lovely, actually, which you'd know if you came above ground"); his immediate plans ("I'm leaving in two days' time, for Corsica of all places"); as well as making polite inquiries into Snape's current laboratory work. While Snape doubted that his former colleague was interested in the newest research on the use of other bodily fluids as a substitute for blood, Snape answered his questions with icy dignity as his guest listened with rapt attention and ate a handful of raspberry scones. 

Finally, Lupin could evade no longer and he cleared his throat, setting aside his teacup. "So, you took Hermione to the Midsummer festival, did you?"

"Yes," he admitted, frowning to show his dislike of the topic at hand. "It's not as if you didn't see us, Lupin."

"You're right, of course," Lupin agreed uncertainly, his words slow as he wasted a moment to reach for his teacup. He did not drink, however, but simply held the fragile porcelain in his hands. "It's just that I had not realized that your feelings for Hermione had taken on so serious a romantic dimension."

At that declaration, Snape nearly choked on the sip of tea he'd just taken, snorting and sputtering as he tried to keep from being strangled. "I think you've finally surrendered your mind to the moon, Lupin, because you've gone mad."

"Have I?" Lupin wanted to know, glancing up from the amber liquid in his cup. "I don't see where I've said anything so crazy."

"To think that _I_ ---"

"What else am I to think, then?" Lupin asked firmly. "I know the two of you have become close since she's left school and --"

"A few owls about bezoars hardly makes us close."

"--- and I have suspected that you'd grown fond of her. Then I show up here to see the pair of you having come from a Midsummer festival together. I know what that means, Severus. I'm not so ancient as to think it's a bloody engagement, but I do know the significance of it."

"I merely went to make certain that Miss Granger did not find trouble," Snape argued icily. "While I am as aware of the traditions as you, I hardly thought you would be so daft to believe that they apply to myself and Miss Granger in such a fashion. I can promise you that I did not take her to Hogsmeade as a sign of my intentions to court her. You must see how ridiculous it is to even think that."

"What I see," Lupin stated steely, "is a quick-witted, intelligent wizard who's found himself a proper match in an attractive like-minded young witch. There's nothing wrong with it, you know. Most normal people in such a situation would be happy."

"That is hardly the case," Snape snapped. "I harbor no kind of romantic intentions toward Hermione Granger."

Lupin sighed, as if greatly disappointed. "You may continue to lie to yourself if you'd like," he told him, "but I was there, Severus. If I had arrived a few seconds later, I'd have stumbled on something much more significant than the cozy scene I did find waiting. Say what you will, but I know what it looks like when a man is about to kiss a woman."

"Lupin..." It was Snape's turn to issue the warning.

"I think that you're being deliberately obtuse," Lupin stated, rising. "And if you weren't, you might realize something very important. Good day, Severus, and thanks for the tea."

Head-spinningly fast, Snape was alone in his chambers with nothing but the echoed remembrance of Lupin's words and his own thoughts to keep him company. Not that he actuallygave much credence to Lupin's babble. 

Snape had not been about to kiss Hermione Granger; the whole idea was preposterous. He had never harbored the tiniest sliver of affection or attraction for any of his students, current or former, and frizzy-haired, moralistic Granger was not the sort to change his mind on the subject.

Except...

He did think her beautiful, and she'd been enchantingly so in the glow of the torchlight, her smiling face etched vividly in his memory. And it had felt nice to hold her to him in that facsimile of a dance they'd shared. 

Then, there'd been that moment on the front steps in the light of dawn, when he'd thought, when he'd almost entertained the notion of...

Touching her, which he'd done. 

Kissing her, which he'd desperately wanted to do.

_Oh dear god._

He would have given into that last temptation as well had it not been for Lupin's appearance, though he'd always prided himself on his restraint in such matters. 

For Severus Snape had learned many years ago that it did not do well to allow himself to be lured into giving into temptations, especially dangerous ones. When he'd been a teenager, nothing had been more dangerous, more tempting or more seductive than the lure of the Dart Arts and _that_ had ended badly.

An image of Hermione just as she'd been moments before Lupin's arrival arose up in his mind, suddenly freed from the fog of his liquored memory: her hair in disarray around her face and down her bare shoulders, the clinging dress, the shadowed quality of her eyes...

Tempting. Dangerous. Seductive.

The fact that he had begun to compare Hermione Granger to the Dark Arts alerted him to the great extent to which he'd fallen prey to his own traitorous desires.

Snape wasn't certain what kind of lunacy had taken hold over him in the past few months, but he realized that prolonged physical exposure to Hermione's presence was the cause of it, though it had taken Midsummer for it to reach a level where he'd been unable to ignore it any longer.

In fact, it had taken old, toothless, tactless Ljalja and meddling, officious Lupin to point out what should have been obvious to a man of his perception.

Somewhere between her seventh year and that summer, Snape's tolerance of Hermione had given way to an affection that he admitted went beyond the waspish kind of friendship which he usually cultivated between himself and others, when he bothered to cultivate anything at all.

Affection, even to his own ears, sounded hollow and inadequate, but there was no stronger word for him to use. Truthfully, Snape was too busy counting himself a fool to think much on semantics, though he was certain that he'd managed to make a damn fool of himself.

What else could he be called but a fool? He -- a brilliant and capable wizard of almost forty years -- had allowed himself to become attached to a mere girl, an enterprising but wholly unsuitable creature who had once been his student. It was ridiculous to his own ears; he could only imagine what others would say about the situation.

And it had taken his own weakening control that had almost resulted in some very inappropriate behavior to clue him into the fact that he'd been engulfed by something he'd never noticed threatening him.

With Lupin as a witness to his unfortunate slip that night as well as his strange behavior at tea, Snape had come to expect a visit from Dumbledore to occur at any moment, one replete with kind admonitions and gentle hints about proper conduct. When none came, he assumed that Lupin had kept silent on the matter out of deference of Granger's feelings.

Snape refused to contemplate very deeply on what she might be thinking of his suddenly-obvious behavior, but none of the few scenarios he reviewed were amiable ones.

How could it be otherwise? He knew her interests were already engaged elsewhere and those feelings were stronger than most. Although he was not certain on their object, he had his suspicions and he knew that it was not love of him which had protected her from the hayam potion. To believe so would have only been self-delusion and Snape had little time for such nonsense.

He refused to think of the pain that that realization caused in him.

In the end, Snape decided that he would continue to keep to his rooms and hope -- _pray_, if necessary -- that after Hermione was safely ensconced at her Muggle home far away from him and Hogwarts, he'd be able to free himself of whatever metaphysical fever had left him delirious enough to make him act in such a foolish manner in regards to something he'd learned long ago was rarely worth the humiliation.

He refused to give coherent thought as to what that matter was. 

----

It was amazing, Hermione reflected, how much more quickly she was able to work on her research project when she focused whole-heartedly on its completion, instead of allowing the distractions -- usually in the form of Snape -- surrounding her to divide her attention. It also helped that she no longer wanted to prolong her stay at Hogwarts any longer than necessary. Snape was still avoiding her and she felt that nothing but space and time would mend the damage done to their fledging friendship by the disastrous end of Midsummer night. 

It did sadden her, though, that she wouldn't have a chance to say goodbye. It seemed ominous when times were so dangerous to leave the simplest things unsaid.

She did make certain to wish Remus a fond farewell the night before his early morning departure was scheduled, and the pair spent a quiet evening together discussing all and sundry, though the conversations seemed to particularly gravitate to Harry and particularly ignore Snape, a fact which Hermione silently appreciated. While one part of her desperately wondered what Remus might think of her feelings for Snape, she did not feel quite up to the challenge of dealing with Lupin's opinions if they were as negative as she feared.

Perhaps driven by such thoughts, Hermione felt in no mood to retire after Remus had departed her guest chambers for his own and had little trouble in finding the time to add the polishing touches to the final draft of her project. Pleased with the neat roll of parchment filled with crisp black lines of her handwriting, Hermione set the original and the magically-made copy on her desk where they would await both her own wax seal and Dumbledore's before being shipped off to a board of Trinity professors for examination. After that, all she had to do was wait for the score to arrive to her by owl-post and she'd have neatly managed to reduce her course-load by several classes with a few weeks' diligent work.

Still far from sleepiness, Hermione indulged in a long, hot bath in the guest facilities that rivaled anything she had for her use at Trinity and dwarfed the adequate bathroom in her Muggle home. But not even the warmth of the water nor the soothing effect of the lavender-scented bath oil could lull Hermione to sleep; instead, she busied herself with stacking books and parchments. The Hogwarts library books could be returned to Madame Pince, she noted, now that she'd finished her project and her drafts would be stored away in case any questions arose about the methodology of her research. Her personal tomes would be packaged for shipment back to the Granger household, only to be sent back to her Trinity dormitories in September.

Her fingers lingered over the cover of _A Book of Days_ as she added it to the top of the stack to be returned to the library.

It was at that moment that truth hit her forcefully, unexpectedly at the sight of that particular book: she would be leaving in a few days, possibly as early as tomorrow afternoon, depending on Dumbledore's schedule. She'd return to her home to spend some time with her parents and then she'd be back at Trinity until Christmas. It could be months before she even laid eyes on Snape after she left the school grounds. Perhaps, she could summon the courage to write him again, but...

So much could happen in a few months. The war, raging everywhere. Wasn't that what Remus had told her? The fighting was escalating and everything was more dangerous. What if...what if something...

Suddenly, the spacious guest chamber was much too small and suffocating for Hermione's taste. She barely remembered to grab her dressing gown as she dashed out of the room and into the dark halls of the school. Despite the season, night had dawned cool and silent over the castle, the vacant halls painted in tones of blue by the stillness of the night sky through the vaulting windows. The sharp damp coolness of the stone corridors brought a welcome chill to Hermione's flushed skin and she quickly wrapped her dressing gown around her though the thin, satiny fabric did little to alleviate the pleasant cool. It did, however, do a much better job of covering her than the matching nightgown worn closest to her skin. At the first touch of that coolness on her skin, Hermione's initial frenzy ebbed away, leaving in its place nothing but a vague sense of restlessness and she was loathed to return to the stifling confinement of her bedchamber. 

Instead, she wandered the cool, empty corridors.

Her walk -- slow, ambling -- had no purpose and little direction. As a student, she'd never been one for roaming the halls at night, as Harry and Ron had. But as she did so in the quiet of solitude, she slowly came to understand the appeal Harry had attributed to it in his last year -- the calm it could bring, the reflection it allowed. Allowing her bare feet to lead her with no premeditation, Hermione drifted through the castle, her unhappy thoughts stilled by the quiescent landscape of her surroundings. By sheer force of will, she tried to banish all ideas of leaving and the war and Snape out of her foremost thoughts.

Unfortunately, it was not as simple a task as she'd have liked and the troublesome thoughts continued to skim the surface of her attention, not entirely coherent but present nonetheless. Once again, she wished she'd had had the courage to talk to Lupin about it before he'd left. She needed advice and was frankly leery of bringing anyone else in to her confidence on the subject. Ginny's name rose in her mind as the only likely candidate but Hermione was intelligent enough to know that this kind of information wasn't something one simply dropped into a casual letter. 

_Hello Ginny, I'm in love with Professor Snape_, was hardly going to receive its proper due.

There was also her aunt Sophia who had to know something of love after having been engaged five times to four different men over as many continents; or her grandmother Rosalia, the romantic of the family; but neither of them were any more available for ready consultation than Ginny.

No, she decided, following the curve of the familiar corridor, she would have to act without any outside opinions and her own instinct was to continue avoiding her former professor until she was safely away from Hogwarts. Once she was settled at home, she could simply owl him and -- hopefully -- everything embarrassing which had passed could be ignored. 

Hermione could not dwell on the chance that she could lose him, no matter how true such a threat was. To think in such a way would slowly drive her mad, just as it would if she worried herself constantly over Harry or Ron or any number of her dangerously networked friends. She would simply hold fast to her stubborn hope and optimism that the fighting would end soon and end well for the Wizarding World. 

She was noting with some irony how miserably she had failed at driving Snape from her thoughts when she passed through another passage and into another section of Hogwarts, very close to the kitchens entrance she had learned of in her fourth year. While Hermione was not one to enjoy making undue demands of the legion of house elves who ran the castle, she could find no harm in asking if she could procure some tea, preferably chamomile. Finally with a destination in mind, Hermione's gait gained its usual no-nonsense speed as she altered course in order to reach the painting of the pear which begged to be tickled.

It was not until she turned onto another long corridor that Hermione was bombarded with the niggling sensation that she was no longer the only creature to be haunting the hallways, Peeves notwithstanding. At first, she thought that the presence she sensed might have been that of a wayward apparition or a particularly lively painting but the few oils and watercolors which dotted the walls were resting peacefully and nothing minutely supernatural crossed her path. Hermione was ready to concede to paranoia when she finally caught sight of a dark figure moving through the darkness of an intersecting hallway and it only took an infinitesimal glimpse of a flaring dark robe for her to be able to recognize Snape's form in the blurry shadow moving toward her. 

In hopes that he would not be able to sense her presence, Hermione slowed her steps, clinging to the shadows of the castle's gothic structure in order to remain unseen. However, her cautious measures were too late -- a tiny pinprick of light from one of the frosted-pane windows had danced across the light-colored fabric of her dressing gown and the effect had teased at Snape's attention. He turned toward her to peer down the seemingly empty corridor only to find a very still Hermione a few paces from where he stood.

Just as Hermione had felt electricity lick through her veins at his almost-kiss, energy pulsed between them. But this time it was suffocating and tense, both of them staring at the other, unsure and awkward at how to proceed now that they were face-to-face.

"Miss -- Granger?" Snape asked, as if to assure himself that she were not some mirage brought to life by his own unsettling thoughts.

"Professor Snape," was her faint reply.

Snape did not allow himself to be intimidated by his own discomfort or his companion's obvious unease. "I did not expect to see you wandering the halls so early in the morning," he told her tersely, his tone as cool and piercing as it had ever been in the classroom.

"Nor I, you," Hermione returned, her clipped tone an instinctive reaction to his. "There are no students to be caught out of bed, after all." 

An eyebrow rose in typical fashion. "And yet...here you are," he noted, a shade of accusation in his tone as if he blamed her for her presence.

"I am not a student," Hermione pointed out dryly. Though her own heart was beating rapidly in her chest, she was still able to discern a similar kind of stress in Snape's unusually stiff motions as he jerkily crossed his arms over his chest.

"And yet still there seems to be little reason for you to be wandering the corridors," he said, tone dark. "Obviously there must be some reason for it?" He eyed her closely, expression hard and suspicious. "Perhaps...perhaps...you're looking to see Lupin _again_ before he leaves? Well, I'm afraid he's already left on his assignment if that was your...motivation." Heavy secret meanings lurked in his pauses and intonation but Hermione could not quite understand what.

"Looking for Remus?" she repeated in puzzlement, her voice growing faint as she spoke. "Why would you immediately assume that?"

"You have been little from his company since his arrival. I -- assumed -- you wanted to ...ah...wish him a fond farewell."

"We said our goodbyes this afternoon," she informed him, almost suffocating under the tension and unspoken anger rippling between them.

"And again this evening, no doubt," Snape snapped back icily.

Her irritation cut through her awkwardness. Hermione frowned at him as she pinned him with a dark look. "I detect your reproach lurking somewhere in this conversation, Professor."

He unfolded his arms and held them up in a physical expression of forbearance. "Far be it from me to _judge_ your choice of... _friends_."

With little thought, she chose to ignore his uneven stresses as she snapped, "Particularly since you're one of them."

Her annoyed retort froze Snape mid-reply. He gave her another inscrutable look as he slowly lowered his arms to their original position, his eyes locked on hers. "Am I?"

Her response was quiet and heartfelt, devoid of irritation but heavy with wistfulness. "I'd like to think so. At least, I had ... hoped."

Almost simultaneously, they both chose to look away, Snape's gaze lingering over the sleeping animals of a nearby portrait while Hermione traced a sliver of moonlight with her eyes. Again, everything was still and silent, with the awkwardness no longer blanketed by snappish anger or annoyance. 

"I'm --- flattered," Snape finally spoke again, still looking away.

"So am I," Hermione admitted, her voice nearly a whisper.

The silence stretched between them, hanging listlessly in the space between them, neither certain of what to do with such an admission. 

Snape cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Although you are no longer a student, it is not -- prudent -- for you to wander the halls," he said, quite subdued.

"Oh, you're right, I suppose," Hermione took a few steps away from him. "I guess I'll head off to my chambers. Goodnight, Professor."

"Goodnight, Miss Granger," Snape echoed, turning away from her. "Pleasant...dreams."

"Same to you," she returned before spinning on heel and retreating rapidly in the direction from which she'd come. 

As Snape watched her disappear, a vision of moonlight-colored brightness against the pitch of the darkened walls, he knew that pleasant though they might be, his dreams would be haunted with thoughts of her.

----

Just as he'd suspected, Snape found his dreams that night to be far from peaceful. He rose early and, having breakfasted before the meal would be served in the main hall, he quickly retreated to the staffroom where he planned to spend most of his day working on some correspondence as well as other tedious lesson changes for the new year -- a fact which made him wonder why he'd chosen to try a new textbook for his upper-level courses. While he usually chose to do his work closeted in his office, the days of avoiding Hermione had given him a strange and singular case of cabin fever in regards to the dungeon environment of his chambers and office and he hoped that the wood-paneled, windowed staffroom could cure him of it. Luckily, he knew that few teachers occupied the room during off-terms and he expected few distractions or interruptions.

He was correct until mid-morning when Professor McGonagall entered the staffroom, her heavy traveling cloak tossed over one arm as she scanned the room as if in search of something. When she glanced over Snape sitting in his preferred chair by the fire, she crossed toward him.

"Severus, you haven't seen Albus in the last few minutes, have you?" she asked him and he noticed that the hideous piece of tartan cloth which she called a purse was also swinging from her arm. 

"I have not had that pleasure all day," he answered stoically, overlarge nose buried in the new Potions text. He paused in his reading to lift his quill from a small side table, dip it into the waiting ink and scratch something scathing in the margin of the paragraph he was reading. 

McGonagall sighed the long-suffering sigh of a woman accustomed to continual interaction with Albus Dumbledore. "Well, if you see him, tell him that I'm still waiting for his list and I do plan to leave sometime today."

"List?"

"Yes, a list of things he wanted me to bring him from London," she informed Snape, rolling her eyes. "I believe that a great deal of it consists of Muggle candy." Snape made a noise of sympathetic agreement even while he remained engrossed in the textbook. "By the by, Severus, is there anything you have need of from London? Muggle or from Diagon Alley."

"Nothing that cannot wait until I may procure it myself," he told her. "But thank you for the kindness."

She waved away his unusually polite remarks. "Well, if you change your mind, just let me know before lunch; Miss Granger and I have plans to leave just after it."

Despite himself, Snape could not help but close his book and focus his attention wholly on McGonagall as he asked, "Miss Granger is accompanying you?"

"She's the reason that I'm going," Minerva explained, matter-of-fact as she plucked a stray cat hair from her cloak. "I'm escorting her to the Ministry of Magic this afternoon."

"Whatever for?"

"She wants to test for her Apparition license before she returns home. I was surprised myself that she not yet done so but apparently there was an _incident_ -- and you know the kind of which I speak, Severus -- the last time she went to test and she was never given a chance that day."

Snape remembered the "incident" in question quite vividly and tried to focus on details of the Voldemort-led sabotage in an attempt to distance himself from the unpleasant emotions he felt at the knowledge that Granger was finally -- as he'd been hoping -- removing herself from Hogwarts. It did not help. "So, Miss Granger is leaving today to return home, then?"

"She finished her project yesterday and Albus was kind enough to contact me before breakfast and ask if I minded a quick trip to London. Of course, I didn't mind. At all." The sarcasm was faint but Snape easily caught the wry twist of McGonagall's mouth. Then, she softened, adding, "But I really don't mind helping Hermione." Snape was about to comment when the older woman snapped her fingers as an expression of comprehension lit her face. "I think I know exactly where the headmaster is. If you would excuse me, Severus..."

At Snape's nod, McGonagall hurried out of the room she'd just entered, still clutching her hideous bag and cloak as the door banged loudly behind her. While news of Hermione's departure should have pleased him, there was nothing but a hollow feeling left in him at the reality of the news. Over the summer, he'd become so accustomed to her presence at the school and in his daily affairs that few days which had passed lately during which he had not seen her had seemed unfamiliar and strange. He had had to curb his almost-unconscious actions to seek her out when she'd remained far from the dungeons where they'd worked together over the month of her research visit.

It also seemed too hasty, her departure; Snape was wrestling with the ramifications of their shared Midsummer experiences as well as the conclusions it had led him to make. His own newly discovered...affection...had left him unable to express -- or hide -- his feelings in any manner he found fitting but made him want to do just that, and eloquently. As evidenced by the halting, awkward quality of their unexpected meeting the previous night, Snape was unable to adequately purport himself when speaking to her, a fact which made any sort of conversation loathsome. He could control neither his anger, his jealously nor his sensibilities in a satisfactory manner.

But he did not want Hermione to leave without having one last chance to speak to her. If no other business carried her to Hogwarts' gates, the chance of him seeing her again after she left was virtually nonexistent. While he might have the chance to contact her by owl -- if she chose to continue their correspondence -- letters were hardly adequate. For what they were inadequate, he made no conscious attempt to define.

The day ticked by at snail's pace and Snape tried to occupy himself with the work he wanted to accomplish. Instead his mind remained firmly planted on the all-too-unimportant decision of whether to seek out Hermione before she left the grounds. The fact that something so trivial was clearly absorbing his time disgusted him.

And yet, he still thought and deliberated. He made decisions and changed them twice over before changing them again. And finally, he decided that he would live without seeing Hermione one last time.

It was this firm, resolute decision of which he was proud; and it was because of this firm, resolute decision that Snape found himself navigating the castle's winding pathways at a pace which could only be called breakneck, struggling vainly to convince himself -- and any unknowing audience -- that he was not trying to find Miss Granger before she left the grounds, but only that he'd suddenly remembered that he had meant to discuss with Professor Sprout the addition of another small bed of medicinal herbs in one of the outlying greenhouses.

It was with a great deal of surprise that Snape finally encountered Hermione as she emerged into the Great Hall from the entrance to the dungeons, a valise clutched in one hand and her expression crestfallen. He slowed when he noticed her and waited until she glanced over and noticed his approach.

"Professor Snape," Hermione breathed in relief, tugging her bag along with her as she rushed toward him. 

"Yes, Miss Granger?" he asked coolly and detachedly, as if he had not just flew down a flight of stairs in order to find her.

"I was just looking for you," she admitted softly as the awkwardness crept over them once more. She struggled against it as she continued. "I wanted to tell you goodbye."

"Yes, Professor McGonagall informed me that you've finished your research project," Snape said curtly. "Congratulations." 

She nodded, grasping onto a topic as safe as her Divination project. "Yes, just last night. It was very interesting, really, because now that I've finished the essay, I have this strange feeling that I've seen the reading -- or something similar to it -- before. I don't know exactly, but the something about the positioning of the agate, ruby and citrine...then, the amber and the serpenti..." She trailed off, eyes widening.

"Yes?"

Hermione shook herself, the shocked look replaced by a contemplative one. "Sorry. I finally realized why the configuration sounded so familiar." Snape gave her a piercing look but she would divulge nothing else about her epiphany. Instead she continued her earlier thread of discussion. "So, yes. It's finished. Nothing to do but wait at home for my results to arrive from Trinity. Well, and my mother is threatening me with garden work but I plan to spend the remainder of my holiday finishing some reading."

"It seems that your holiday will continue much as it has been while you were here," Snape observed, sliding a teasing tone into his uninterested expression.

Hermione thought about the statement for a moment before grinning at him. "I do believe you're correct, Professor. Though my mother does not employ scythes in her gardening."

Snape awarded her with a quirk of his lips -- a smile, in his case -- and Hermione felt a rush of happiness run through her as the tangible uneasiness of their precious encounter seemed to lessen, slowly fading away like fog burned away by the rising sun.

"Nor should she," was Snape's dry answer.

Hermione's smile widened but it was colored with a tinge of sadness. "Well, this is goodbye, I think. Professor McGonagall is waiting for me at the entrance."

Snape nodded. "Goodbye, Miss Granger. And...I wish you well for the remainder of the summer and on your next term at Trinity."

"Thank you, Professor," she told him. "I hope everything goes well for you, too." A pause. "Try not to frighten too many of the first years."

"Me? Frightening?" Snape dryly feigned surprise, giving her the look she'd come to expect to accompany his sarcasm.

Hermione merely returned his look with a "Yes, you" expression of her own before tightening her grip on her luggage. "Well, I'm off." 

Trying to remain strong in the face of a painful separation -- she was beginning to wonder how she'd survived those two terms at Trinity -- Hermione quickly turned and marched toward the entrance, knuckles white around the suitcase's handle. Hermione thought herself safe from any lingering chance of doing something impulsively embarrassing as she walked away. She had not counted on Snape's parting comment, which floated across the distance between them as softly and deeply rich as a caress. "Take care, Hermione."

She paused mid-step and slowly lowered her case to the floor before she turned back to face Snape again. Without discernible deliberation, Hermione strode toward him, her eyes fixed on his face and his perplexed expression. Once within arms' length, she faltered -- but the steely determination which Snape noticed in her eyes quickly melted into the shadowed quality he remembered from Midsummer, causing his breath to catch in his throat. 

Hermione then reached out and laid her hands lightly against the heavy black material of the frock coat he wore as she leaned upward and forward until the space between them dwindled.

Her lips brushed against his cheekbone.

"You, too," she said softly, sincerely, almost shy as she quickly pulled away, escaping from his personal space before he could take any action. "Be safe."

As if only then she'd understood what she'd done, Hermione darted away, her feet carrying her hastily back toward the forgotten valise. Her fingers had wrapped around its handle when Snape's voice sliced through the air, forcefully like the crack of a whip. "Miss Granger!"

Hermione looked at him, both hands holding up her heavy valise. "Yes?"

Snape's carefully neutral face softened almost imperceptibly. "As difficult as it may be for you, do try to give me at least a week's peace before pestering me with your insufferable letters. I deserve that, at least, for having bore your constant presence this summer."

Hermione smiled warmly. "I'll try," she assured him, mock-serious. "But I can't promise anything."

And so finally Hermione Granger felt that her heart could survive leaving Hogwarts castle and Severus Snape thought that he could survive watching her go.

----

_Author's Notes_: Not too much in the way of notes, though I must admit that I was surprised by the outpouring of Lupin-hate. Aw, c'mon, don't hate him because he's a fun plot device!

I know. Last time I was evil and now I'm a tease. But, please remain patient and you'll be rewarded very soon.

And to answer a question left for me in a review: **Niobium** -- I took three years of higher-level Chemistry in high school and a year of Organic Chemistry in college. I just hated every minute of it. I don't think I was blessed with a mind for science. But I assure you that forensic and biological anthropology are far from "soft" sciences, though neither are my area of expertise.

(Oh, If you aren't certain as to what Hermione realized about her Divination reading, refer back to Part III.)

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to my betas, **Kel** and **Mel** (aka Nothing?) who did the beta work on this part. Any problems still here are products of my own stupidity.

If you are so inclined, leave a review. 


	17. It's just something I must do

**Heart over mind : Part XVII  
It's just something I must do   
**

----

Severus Snape had thought -- nay, expected -- that once Hermione had taken leave from Hogwarts and removed herself as a constant source of agitation that his notoriously unflappable equilibrium and single-minded dedication to work would quickly return and he would be able to count himself free of such silly distraction. And, while he was less tensely coiled in her absence than he'd been in those last days he'd spent avoiding her, Snape was disconcerted that he remained distracted and absent-minded several days after her departure, constantly left with the feeling that something bright and vital was missing every moment of the day.

It was disheartening, to say the least. It worried him that the thought of her or the knowledge of her absence from his physical vicinity could cause him such shifts in emotion and concentration when he'd spent the better part of two decades trying to master such impulses.

Snape tried to ignore it, but some things were beyond even his ability to deny.

Determined to right himself in the face of such heavy personal failings, Snape applied himself intensively to his potions work, dedicated in body if not in mind and spirit. But Snape was nothing if not stubborn and his falsely-motivated devotion to his research kept him obliquely buried in his underground rooms, with nothing for company except maddening memories of Hermione and his own traitorous thoughts.

Despite his unhappiness with the ghostly companions that haunted him, Snape was even less thrilled when flesh-and-blood irritations decided to encroach on his solitude in the humming, smiling form of Albus Dumbledore.

"Oh, there you are, Severus," the elderly headmaster remarked in mild surprise, as if he'd actually experienced the emotion when he'd found Snape with his head bent over a stack of smoke-scented tomes on medieval techniques for mercurial sublimation, as if he'd been in doubt about the professor's location. "I see this is where you've chosen to entomb yourself."

"There's no need for melodrama, Albus," Snape replied crisply, not sparing the headmaster another glance as he remained focused on the faded Latin text. "I hardly think "entomb" is an appropriate description."

"If you ever came above ground, perhaps my melodramatic tendencies would not be wasted on you and your surroundings," Dumbledore replied, his tone deceptively soft and mild.

Snape snapped the book shut. "Is there something that you need, Albus, or are you here simply to distract me from my work?"

Dumbledore peered at him over the rim of his half-moon glasses, the blue gaze cuttingly sharp. "I've simply come to see if you've been overworking yourself, as usual. Ever since Miss Granger has left, I hardly think you've left this office or your lab."

As much as he tried to fight the ridiculous urge, Snape flinched ever-so-slightly at the sound of Hermione's name, the words spoken aloud reminding him of the inner conflict he'd been trying to dispel. Dumbledore, keener than his years, noticed the reaction.

"Perhaps it's because I'm finally afforded the proper amount of space and time to work on projects long neglected due to Miss Granger's meddlesome presence," Snape offered coolly, reaching over another book from the pile at his right. "It was hardly conducive to have the girl barging in and out of my laboratory."

"I understand, of course, Severus," Dumbledore agreed, smiling. "Miss Granger can be very -- distracting, or so I've been told."

"Indeed."

Dumbledore seated himself in the only available chair and settled back against the ancient, creaking wood, as if preparing to remain there for a good, long while. Inwardly Snape groaned, but he ostensibly remained focused on his work. "I must admit that I do have an ulterior motive for this visit," the old headmaster admitted, eyes twinkling.

"How shocking."

"Now, now, Severus," he warningly teased. "It's just that I wanted to ask you if you enjoyed the Midsummer festivities. Alas, I was unable to attend, but Madam Rosmerta assures me that you and Miss Granger looked as if you were having a rather good time all your own."

Snape raised an eyebrow but kept his expression neutral. "The Madam exaggerates. Miss Granger decided _quite_ on her own to explore the Hogsmeade festival after she had aided me with my collection of mistletoe. Seeing as how the hour was late, I felt obligated to accompany her as a precaution to ensure her safety."

"Of course," Dumbledore demurred, still teasingly. "I never thought otherwise." The headmaster paused, as if thinking about something. "Although, Remus seemed to think that there was something more to the evening than ensuring Miss Granger's safety."

Snape snorted. "Yes, I know. He shared his ridiculous concerns with me, himself."

"And that is your entire opinion about his suspicions?" Dumbledore inquired as his long, gnarled hands swished through the air to summon himself a cup of tea.

"Lupin's delusional thought processes are no concern of mine," Snape returned scathingly. He closed another ancient book and pushed it aside, the nervous action edging another stack of books dangerously near the edge of his desk.

"Delusion, Severus? I don't believe that Remus's conclusions were as far-fetched as you seem to think them."

Snape stood and crossed the cramped office space to collect another book from a dim, dusty shelf, his back to Dumbledore as he replied. "Exactly what are you implying, headmaster?"

The headmaster detected the current of steel in the deep, level tone. "I am merely explaining that Remus's conclusions were based on very strong evidence," he said, raising his hand as if to soothe the younger man. "You must admit that it looked..."

"Yes?" He intoned icily, turning to watch the headmaster with dark, angry eyes.

"Just as Remus said," Dumbledore stated firmly. "For Muggleborns such as Miss Granger or even half-bloods like Remus and Harry, the occasion might not have looked so -- courtly. Such traditions have rarely survived to have much influence over the newer members of wizarding society. But you, Severus...with your impeccable pureblood lineage, especially with you being the eldest living Lovell male...it is easy to see how it could be construed as a very significant occasion."

"Albus, surely you're overreacting to a very simple --"

"And what did Madam Obenoskey have to say about the sight?"

Snape's eyes narrowed over the edge of his vellum-paged book as he returned to his seat. "Ljalja is a mad old woman who has done nothing but annoy me since I was five years old."

Dumbledore smiled at that. "I've always thought that she was a lovely woman. She was about a decade or so behind me at Hogwarts."

"How interesting," scoffed Snape sarcastically, opening his book with a decided snap.

"You still haven't told me what Ljalja thought when she saw Hermione with you at the festival, Severus."

"That that barmy old hag drew an incorrect conclusion means nothing," Snape told him emphatically, frowning as he slammed his book shut without ever reading a word. "And I don't know what you've come here to insinuate, Albus, but I'll have none of it. It was nothing, just as all of your transparent little plans to make me befriend Granger have been. I grant you that she is not as bothersome as I might have once believed but ---"

"Perhaps I should simply inform Molly Weasley about this excursion that meant so little and allow her to discuss with you," Dumbledore cut in. "I have an inkling that she would think it meant a great deal."

For a brief moment, Snape was struck with the absurd turn which the conversation had taken. What exactly _was_ Dumbledore's point? He knew that his own motives had been exactly as he'd stated them: he had went to Midusmmer simply to watch over Hermione and made sure no harm befell her. Of course, it had only been later that he'd understood that there was more to his feelings for her than what he'd originally believed...

Uncomfortable with the subject, his own thoughts on it and the direction Dumbledore was driving the conversation, Snape stood stiffly, tucking one stack of books under his elbow. "You presume too much," he declared before sweeping out of his own office, robes swirling and dark eyes blazing with some unidentifiable emotion.

"Perhaps, dear boy, you simply presume too little."

----

Upon taking her leave from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione Granger had expected the remainder of her summer to pass in the same fashion as the preceding summers had. She would -- as she'd told Snape -- finish some reading, help her mother in the garden and generally take a few weeks of well-deserved rest before she had to return to Ireland for fall term at Trinity.

But now, not even a month later, as she tried to fit her most important belongings into the space afforded her by two large trunks and a light valise, Hermione knew that she had been wrong.

For one, Hermione would not be returning to Trinity.

Despite the serious departure life had taken from her well-laid plans, the first few days back at home had progressed just as she'd expected. There had been some reading, mostly from her mother's well-stocked paperback collection, and there had been some gardening, mostly the harvesting of Carolina's prized basil, before the weather had taken its customary turn to rain and clouds. The only significant occurrence in those first weeks had been Ginny's visit to the Granger household and the conversation she'd had with her best friend. True to the decision she had made at Hogwarts, Hermione had summoned up the courage to confide in Ginny the truth about the hayam and Snape.

Even weeks later, as Hermione examined the overflowing bookshelves of her small bedroom in an attempt to decide what to take with her, she still found amusement from the memory and spared a fleeting smile as she recalled with great clarity that moment of confession.

It had taken place in the Grangers' kitchen where she and Ginny had had lunch; after the meal of homemade pesto and penne, the two had remained at the table to enjoy the cookies which Carolina had permitted grudgingly into her sugar-free pantry. Over lunch, they'd talked of Ginny's problems, of her troubles with Harry, over her fears about what was happening. Unlike Hermione, Ginny had lived all summer in the midst of Order activity, her mother and father coming and going, the strain of the new developments showing in every premature line in Harry's face or hard set to Ron's jaw. Listening, Hermione had again felt that nagging doubt that -- perhaps -- her decision to immerse herself in academia had been prompted as much by fear and cowardice as it had a desire to become an excellent healer. She'd shrugged away the guilt, however, and had focused on addressing her friend's concerns...

"It hasn't really gotten too much better with Harry," Ginny admitted softly, idly toying with a strand of her vibrantly red hair. "I think -- I _know_ -- that it really isn't about me -- us. Ron told me that Harry's told him that -- he thinks it'll be soon. You know, the end. The confrontation."

Hermione nodded, remembering Lupin's words at Hogwarts about the escalation of violence. "Yes, I've heard that things are becoming more desperate," she sighed. "He hasn't exactly been forthcoming in his letters to me, either. Typical Harry, though. Push everyone away when he needs them the most."

"I think he wants to protect us," Ginny snorted, obviously unimpressed by the idea. "Stupid, yeah, but -- he doesn't want us to worry about it. And -- I don't think he thinks that he'll survive. He said something once about not wanting everyone to be sad if he...I think he's trying to make it easier on me, in case. The git."

Knowing Harry and his stupid hang-ups, Hermione agreed. Thinking of the new dangers and dark changes in the on-going war brought Snape immediately to Hermione's mind and she frowned, eyes focusing blankly on the dismal view the kitchen window offered of the wet, dreary afternoon.

"Hermione, what's wrong?" Ginny asked, noticing the frown.

"Nothing," she sighed in reply. "Just thinking about what you said."

"Yes," Ginny said with faint humor. "My dismal love life depresses me a great deal as well."

She returned the humor with a half-disapproving look. "That's not what I meant, Gin."

She shrugged, helping herself to another cookie. "Well, you're smarter than I thought you were about avoiding all this romantic dribble. It only complicates everything."

"I know, Gin. I know."

Something about Hermione's tone must have caught Ginny's attention because she narrowed her eyes, visibly concerned. "What's really wrong, Hermione?"

She tore her eyes away from the window once more. "That obvious?" she asked lightly, abashed.

"Only to your oldest friends," Ginny assured her. "You can tell me what's wrong, you know."

"There's nothing actually wrong," Hermione told her, nervously fiddling with the edge of her long-sleeved shirt, eyes fastened on her fingers. "But I _do_ know how you must feel. About Harry -- when he goes out into danger and you don't know how you're supposed to act because all you can do is try not to worry yourself into an early grave. I _know_. There's someone that I worry about that way -- someone I care about deeply," she finished quietly, eyes still downcast. "Someone I love like that."

Ginny couldn't hide her surprise. "Craig?"

"No." Hermione steeled herself and looked up into Ginny's lively brown eyes. "Someone that I've loved for a great longer than I've known Craig. The person that I -- that the hayam -- you remember. Seventh Year."

"I remember," Ginny nodded. "And I remember that you wouldn't tell me who it was."

She nodded. "Because then I didn't think...it mattered. But I've come to realize that it does. And I do love him -- god help me, but I do."

"Hermione..." Ginny's imploring tone asked the question for her.

"Snape," Hermione replied, her voice remarkably steady. "I'm in love with Snape."

To say that Ginny had been surprised by Hermione's confession would have been an understatement of the most heinous variety. The youngest Weasley had not simply been surprised: her face had went slack with shock, eyes wide and mouth dumbly hanging open. When she'd seemed to have regained her wits a moment later, all she'd been able to muster was a pathetic, "You must be joking!"

But Hermione had not been joking and she'd told her as much. Then Ginny, still not fully recovered, had yelped before exclaiming, "SNAPE?"

Luckily for Hermione, Ginny had managed to calm down after a long litany of incoherent mumblings such as "This is completely mad!" and "Hermione, you're completely mad!" to a point where serious conversation had been possible.

In slow fits and starts, the story -- so long held in secret -- had spilled from Hermione's lips as she told Ginny of her correspondence with Snape during the school years, the time spent with him at Christmas and summer holidays. She told her about the Idol he'd given her for Christmas and the gift of the amethyst. Hermione spoke of her worries for him, something she knew that Ginny could appreciate, as well as _nice_ he could be ("in his own way, you understand") when they were alone and the way he'd helped her about Giselle's death. When she'd begun recounting her feelings about the almost-kiss, or her own limited display of affection as she'd left Hogwarts, Hermione had worried that the mere notion of Snape kissing anyone might bring forth objections from her audience, but her friend had remained contemplatively silent, a rapt listener to the twists and turns of Hermione's tale.

By the tale's completion, Ginny had been supportive and conciliatory though she'd never quite lost that look of horrified surprise. And though she'd been little help in terms of advice, her friendly ear had been immensely appreciated -- even if she hadn't been able to stop herself from wincing at the thought of Snape almost kissing Hermione at Midsummer.

In the present, surrounded by stacks of her belongings, Hermione allowed herself a brief flare of amusement from the memory of Ginny's reaction before she tightened her attention back to the task at hand. The task was the odious one of packing. It was also one which Hermione knew she needed to finish quickly.

She would be leaving in less than twenty-four hours.

She would be leaving because of the letter.

Of course, she had had no idea that the letter was even coming, and so it had been a great surprise to wake up early one morning and pad downstairs to make herself a cup of tea only to find a large, tropical bird sitting on her window sill, a letter for her clamped in its beak.

With trembling fingers and a moment of suspicion -- the thought had crossed her mind that it was another Gred and Forge magic trick -- Hermione had accepted the letter from the lovely, colored bird and offered it a bit of leftover penne before she'd broken the wax seal and scanned the crisply written words set down on the parchment.

Even as she was busily packing, with all of the arrangements made, Hermione still couldn't believe that she was going to Peru.

Her mother had had a similar reaction to the news that her only child had decided to quit her studies at Trinity and move halfway across the world. When Hermione had determinedly announced her intentions to her parents that evening, Carolina had wasted little time with pleasantries...

"Absolutely not! I will not let you go!"

"Mum!" Hermione exclaimed, exasperated. "I didn't ask your permission. I was telling you of my decision."

Carolina's dark eyes glittered dangerously, her hands planted on her hips in an unconscious mimicry of her daughter's stubborn posture. "I'm your mother, Hermione, and I say you aren't going. End of this discussion."

"Carolina..." Will Granger finally interjected, his own patience waning. "At least give her a chance to explain _why_ she wants to go. She must have a good reason."

"There is no good reason for dropping out of school and moving to South America, Will. None!" Carolina told him vehemently, glaring at her daughter as if her disapproving glance could change her mind. "This is exactly what Sophia did when she was this age and look how she ended up!"

"And look at how similarly to your mother you're handling this situation," Will commented dryly.

Carolina turned sharply to look at him. "I am nothing like my mother," she stated dangerously.

Will nodded and beckoned for her to join him on the sofa. "Yes, I know. And that's why _you_ are going to sit down and give your daughter a chance to explain." He paused and eyed Hermione significantly. "And she had better have a very good reason."

Displeased but composed, Carolina took a seat next to her husband and waited impatiently for Hermione's justification. Taking a deep breath, her daughter explained. "I received a letter today from Peru," she told him. "And it was an offer for an apprenticeship at one of the foremost mediwizardry centers in the world. It's the chance of a lifetime, you know."

"But what about Trinity and your training?"

"I'll still get my training, Mama," Hermione assured her. "Apprenticeship is simply a different path for the same end. And the healers I'll be working with wrote to say that with the sound theoretical background I have from my studies that I'll be able to finish my apprenticeship very quickly." She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. "I could be finished with _all_ of my training by this time next year. At Trinity, I'd still have another year after that before I'd be able to apprentice myself at St. Mungo's."

That fact alone had been one of the most important in Hermione's decision to abandon Trinity and the familiar scholastic atmosphere for the unknown that awaited in Peru. After the summer she'd had and her conversation with Ginny, Hermione had once again begun to feel guilty about her insulated role in the dangerous war engulfing the wizarding world.

After having first read the letter, Hermione had been surprised and wary of her sudden, inexplicable bravery; it had, as her mother had later pointed out, smacked of her aunt's well-known antics but that fact had not dissuaded her. But still, a doubt had lingered --

Would it simply be another abandonment of her friends to escape to South America while they stayed and fought against Voldemort? She'd felt something akin to that about her decision to study mediwizardry at Trinity instead of joining Harry and Ron in Auror training. Wouldn't leaving the country be a more complete form of bereavement?

But studying under the healers at the Nazca Institute of the Healing Arts would allow Hermione to feel useful in a meaningful way, something she hadn't while studying at university. Instead of feeling as if she'd chosen the coward's way, she could be doing something constructive while her friends (and Snape) were risking their lives for the Cause. For someone who loved learning as much as she, Hermione had come to feel that perhaps she'd reached a point in her life where simply learning was no longer enough. Even the idea of returning to Trininty now that she'd been offered a chance to go to Peru made her feel claustrophobic and restless.

Not only would it fulfill her need to help and to do -- her Mother Teresa complex, Will called it -- it would allow her to finish her training in half the time, negating the need for four more terms at Trinity and then an apprenticeship at St. Mungo's. By the time she left Nazca, she would be a full-fledged mediwitch, a Healer who could return to Britain and _help_...

By the time that she'd been sitting with her parents discussing the issue, Hermione had known that she could not _not_ go to Peru.

In the end, her impassioned pleas had convinced her father of her sincere desire to study at Nazca and Will had, in turn, convinced Carolina to stop arguing about it. With Hermione set to leave only a few days after having accepted the position, her mother had been placated into reluctantly supporting her daughter's decision.

Now, with less than twenty-four hours separating her from her trip to Peru where she'd become one of the few, lucky individuals to study with the most renowned healers on earth, Hermione looked around her scattered bedroom in satisfaction as she packed the last, most precious item into the last niche of her second trunk. Protected with as many cushioning charms as she knew, Hermione carefully laid her Idol of Mnemosyne inside the trunk before cautiously lowering its heavy, studded lid and locking it shut.

Noticing the pile of crumpled parchments on her desk, Hermione realized that she had one more important task to finish before she left for Nazca. Pushing aside her half-finished letter to Sophia, Hermione reached for a clean piece of parchment and began to write.

----

As the summer holidays reached its midpoint, the faculty of Hogwarts School began to slowly return from the summer sojourns, turning their minds to the business of the coming fall term. Some professors -- like Snape, McGonagall and Sprout -- had spent most of their summers at the school anyway and while their colleagues busied themselves with the task of settling back into their rooms and offices, they watched with a sympathetic but superior kind of air about them.

Usually Snape disliked the time of the year when everyone began to trickle back into the school; he considered it the first of many signs that September was rapidly approaching, and with the month came obnoxious students and tedious teaching duties, drawing him away from those things that were most important to him. However, after the strange summer he'd endured, Snape was almost glad to see something happen in so usual a way. Despite himself, he welcomed the indications that he would soon be spending most of his time dealing with idiotic children and ducking exploding cauldrons.

Obviously, his feelings for Hermione had done him more harm than he'd originally thought.

With so many professors having returned, meals again became a more formal occasion, one which all the professors were encouraged -- by Dumbledore's order -- to enjoy communally. The mood at the staff table was a mixture of high and low as excitement and frustration over the coming school year dominated the teachers' conversations, discussions of textbooks and NEWT courses mingling with snippets of tales from summer excursions. As he sat among the chatter and tried to enjoy his breakfast, Snape remained as removed as possible from his colleagues, eating in silence as he allowed the familiarity of the scene to wash over him.

"Have you heard from Miss Granger of late, Severus?" Dumbledore asked lightly as he turned away from his conversation with Professor McGonagall. It was the first time the headmaster had mentioned Hermione to him since their strained dialogue in his office many days before.

"I have not," he answered stoically, taking a sip of his black coffee. He shot Dumbledore a dark look which the older wizard returned with such feigned innocence in his bright blue eyes that even Snape almost believed his sincerity.

"Professor Snape, you look positively murderous," Minerva observed from her place at Dumbledore's side. She was regarding him with a look caught between the humor of her words and the curiosity that had prompted them. Having known him for as many years as she had, McGonagall recognized the sudden tension in his thin form and she watched him with appraising eyes as she waited for his response.

He scowled. "I look no such thing. You are imagining things."

"I haven't heard much from Hermione lately either," Minerva ventured, treading carefully in response to Snape's savage expression. "I had expected an owl from her before now."

"Perhaps she has finally realized that some of us have duties that do not involve answering her constant barrage of questions," Snape supplied, inwardly pleased with the cutting nature of his tone and words, before he returned his full attention to his coffee and toast.

McGonagall and Dumbledore exchanged a knowing look.

As if Dumbledore's question and McGonagall's subsequent inquiry had been premonitions, a tawny hired owl dropped a letter by Snape's plate when the mail arrived a few minutes later. Snape started, surprised when he noticed the post and he gingerly reached for the parchment which bore his name in familiar, precise lines of handwriting.

Snape refused to glance down the line of the table, even though he felt Dumbledore's eyes boring into him. Instead he quickly broke the waxed seal and unfurled the folded parchment to read the lines Hermione had penned.

Professor Snape,

It has been a good three weeks since I've left Hogwarts, so I hope that that time-span was sufficient in giving you some peace from my "insufferable letters." I would have written sooner but there was a great deal of excitement here recently. And I might have written later but I'm not sure when next I'll have the time. Confused? Please allow me to explain.

A week ago I received a letter from the head healer at the Nazca Institute of the Healing Arts in Peru, South America -- a letter asking me if I would be interested in accepting a position there as an apprentice healer in lieu of finishing my mediwizardy training at Trinity. I was surprised, of course; though I've heard of the Institute, I had never even thought of taking an apprenticeship, especially one halfway around the world. As it turns out, the head healer, a witch named Luisa Santo Lucero, is a very close research colleague to one of my professors at Trinity. When she mentioned to Professor Prudhomme that she was looking to fill the vacated position, he gave her my name. As astonished as I was to receive such a offer, I have decided to accept it. I leave tomorrow -- well, today, by the time you read this.

I think you, of all people, might understand why I've chosen to go. At least now I can feel as if I'm making a difference in the world.

Sincerely,  
  
Hermione Granger

PS - I still plan on pestering you with letters; don't think that my change of location will deter me.

PPS - No mention of SPEW, do you hear?

As Snape carefully refolded the letter and tucked it away into the folds of his voluminous robes, only one thought rang loudly through his mind.

_At least she'll be safe._

Thousand of kilometers away from him but also thousands of kilometers away from the death and danger of the war against Voldemort.

Hermione would be safe.

Somehow that assurance made everything -- even Dumbledore -- a little easier to bear. 

----

_Author's Notes_: This part of HoM has had a long history; it was originally finished in July, just before my computer died and had to be replaced. That took over a month and by the time I got the file back, what I wanted to happen in this chapter had changed. This is the result. Sorry about the long wait but, as always, I have no luck with computer problems and my harddrive just -- died.

For updates about notices, keep your eyes on my livejournal where my username is **regann**. All information about the when/why/how/why not of updates can be found there.

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to my betas, **Kel** and **Mel** (aka Nothing?) who did the beta work on this part. Any problems still here are products of my own stupidity.

If you are so inclined, leave a review. 


	18. Time and Distance

**Heart over mind : Part XVIII  
Time and Distance  
**

----

Miss Granger, 

While I must admit that I was mildly interested in discovering that you had received the prestigious honor of studying at a internationally recognized institution for the healing arts, I must express my doubt upon receiving the news. Really, are the Americans so bereft of talent on their own two continents that they must dredge among the mediocre students of Europe in order to fill their halls? Although I realize that you have always managed to earn flatteringly high marks, I cannot believe that your insufferable personality did not lose you such an apprenticeship. 

I know for certain that I'd never put up with the likes of you as an apprentice. 

Obviously those Americans are more patient with irritating young apprentices than I myself am. Of course, there is something inherently irritating in Americans of all nationalities, so perhaps they see you and your vexing ways as kindred to their own. I'm still unsure for whom I feel for sorry -- you or the Peruvians. 

Since you should have no reason to bother me with questions about potions and since you are now at a distance which can conceivably be called such, I expect to be left in peace and to never see an owl bearing the crest of Trinity -- or the Nazca Institute -- again. Someone with an ounce of tact and discernment in their body would realize that this paragraph is nothing if not a decided entreaty for you to cease and desist in all further contact. Despite the threat in your last letter, I beg you to reconsider. 

Of course, since you lack both, I shall expect to hear from you directly, although in less expediency than I've become accustomed. Please excuse the lack of sadness on that point. 

SS 

PS - The short of it is this: well done, Miss Granger and have a pleasant stay in the tropics.

----

Professor Snape,

If I hadn't become accustomed with the tone which you think is wit (but which is rather brutal sarcasm) I might have been less than thrilled (read: incensed) for your well-wishing. However I've learned much in the last year of our correspondence -- enough, at least, to realize that you're genuinely happy for me. So, thank you for your warm words. 

And do not worry; I have no plans to stop writing you, even if the distance is a bit more than it's been in the past. I'd never entertained the idea of ceasing my letters, but I'd most certainly never do so after Remus told me how much he knows that you've enjoyed our correspondence. 

The distance, by the way, is something like 10,000 kilometers. I can't imagine how an owl would travel such a distance and while I've seen and heard tales of people using tropical birds instead, I still don't think a poor nocturnal owl would manage it without some major difficulties en route. I, however, employ no owls, at least not until around Iceland, that is. There's a sort of North American wizarding postal service which uses Floo-like connections to move mail great distances. I'm sure owls all over the Western Hemisphere rejoice at such innovations. 

Sincerely,  
HG 

PS - Nazca isn't actually the tropics, per se. It's on the pampa which is much more arid than "the tropics" implied.

----

Miss Granger, 

I should have realized: make a few conversational remarks and the too-clever-for-her-own-good Hermione Granger will turn them into reasons to showcase her brilliance. I'll refrain from putting into words my joy at your lecture on the location and climate of the Peruvian wilds. Oh, pardon me -- the pampa. 

However, in reining in my thoughts on that subject, I have an ulterior motive. I will only warn you once, Miss Granger, that making mention of undesirables such as Remus Lupin will only strengthen my resolve to stop wasting my time in correspondence with you. I must admit that I'm rather at a loss as why I've continued as long as I have. Perhaps there is more truth to the rumors that I'm slowly losing my mind than I originally thought. 

My time is precious and so I must close. 

SS

----

Professor Snape, 

I just realized that you so rarely write my first name that it looked foreign to see it in your letter. I must admit that you write it very well. I particularly like the flourish on the "H." Very calligraphic, Professor. 

There is nothing undesirable about Remus in any sense of the word. Just because you're mortified that I'm no longer under the delusion that you dislike me, there is no excuse for abusing Remus when he cannot -- and, most likely, would not -- defend himself. 

Admit it, Professor: you enjoy our correspondence as much as I do. 

Have you heard anything more from your cousin Olivia in Greece? Yesterday, a glimpse of a local herder brought me in mind of your anecdote about she and the Muggle goat herder; I can't help but be reminded of another story that I heard from a former classmate of mine at Trinity -- she spent some time in Crete over Christmas last year and I cannot help but entertain the horrible notion that your cousin is the same witch of which my friend spoke. Somehow, the idea that it was a cousin of yours fits Maureen's descriptions perfectly. Eerily so. 

Speaking of Christmas, that will be the first chance I have to visit home, a fact that my mother bemoans forcefully and often in her letters. Of course, she's been writing similar sentiments since I was in my second year at Hogwarts, so I'm hardly unused to her objections. But I wouldn't dream of staying here over the Christmas holidays and not only because nothing short of death would stop my mother from coming to Peru herself and dragging me home, anti-Muggle wards be damned. Just before I left for South America, I received a letter from Wyatt -- or, Mr. Hartford, as you probably remember him -- and his fiancée, Victoria, whom I met at Midsummer. They've planned for a winter wedding and I've been invited. I'm very excited about attending -- I've never been to a real wizard wedding. 

Perhaps I should write Wyatt and have him send you an invitation? I do think that I remember the pair of you got on well enough at Midsummer. 

Sincerely,  
HG

----

Miss Granger, 

I can only imagine what kind of meeting your friend might have had with my cousin. She has always been the wildest among the family, mostly likely stemming from the fact that she was orphaned in the same war which orphaned your Mr. Potter. Unlike your friend, however, Olivia had a doting paternal grandfather to indulge her every whim and wish. From what the headmaster has told me of Potter's Muggle relatives, I've gathered that they were not the indulgent kind. 

Olivia, from her last owl, is in good health and in characteristic form; she's left off of her time in Greece -- without marriage to a goat herder, thank god -- and is now making her way through a tour of Mediterranean, one that has landed her in Spain. Granada, I believe. Actually, I'm sure quite of it, now that I write of it. She told me in her last letter that she'd stayed in one of the wizarding establishments there, an old estate which was briefly the residence of Princess Nadir'ah, a name with which you are most likely very familiar since I doubt that you've forgotten much about your experience with the hayam. According to Olivia, the locals play up the story quite a bit, using it as a theme for the old Moorish palace in order to lure starry-eyed newlyweds into spending exuberant amounts of galleons to honeymoon there. It's so pervasive that even the Muggles in the area have an inkling of Nadir'ah's story, so much so that she's been transfigured into a ghost tale told in connection with strange feline creatures Muggles sometimes see in the area. Though Olivia has seen none of them, I suspect that the Muggles are being tricked by a small family of wild kneazles into believing such tales -- not that it's terribly difficult to confuse Muggles, gullible and oblivious as they are. 

Please do me no favors where Mr. Hartford's wedding is concerned. Unlike you, I have attended a great many weddings in my lifetime and have no desire to attend another one. They are long, boring affairs with little to recommend them. I'd suggest you not waste your time by attending, but I have little doubt that'd you follow such advice. 

Life here at Hogwarts, as you might have surmised from the banality of my comments, is relatively serene, or as serene as it can be with the prospect of being overfilled with noisy, bothersome children looming ominously in the near future. In a figurative sense, things have been quiet, a fact for which the entire staff is grateful. Of course, I have noticed that ever since your class has passed through the hallowed halls for the final time, such quietude has multiplied -- even during the most disruptive times of the year. A coincidence? I think not. 

I hope you continue to enjoy good health in the backwater of civilization. 

SS

----

Professor Snape, 

It sounds as if your cousin is having a marvelous time and I hope she enjoys Spain. Though I've visited France and Italy, I've never had the chance to holiday in Spain. I plan to return to Italy as soon as possible -- my grandmother has been begging me to visit ever since I left Hogwarts. I do, however, resent the opinion that Muggles are easily confused, sir. Yes, Muggles are out of their depth when it comes to things magical, but I am quite certain that you -- and most other pureblood wizards -- would be completely baffled by all things technological. It's enough to make me want to take you Muggle London and watch you try to grope your way through without magic. The memories would amuse me for years to come, I'd wager. 

I'm happy to hear that things are going well at Hogwarts. In fact, things seem to be quiet all over Britain and I'm still not certain if that's a good sign or a bad one. Sometimes, I feel so disconnected from -- everything -- here in Peru that I regret having decided to come, but then I remember how much I'm learning and I'm glad of it. Although Harry finds it difficult to believe that I can be happy wherever it's is true, we do not rely much on learning simply through books; it is very much a hands-on apprenticeship and I have been thrust into action since my first full day. 

At first, it was difficult, going so completely from class work to case work but I appreciate the experience. I feel more satisfied at the end of one day here than I ever did after finishing a term at Trinity and I'm learning a great deal besides. 

Through some coincidence and some deliberation, I have been landed with a werewolf as my one of my full-time patients. It seems as if prejudice against them is as strong in the Americas as it is in Europe and none of the other new apprentices were willing to take on the case. Once Profesora learned that I was not afraid or repulsed by the prospect -- helped by the fact that I am the only Animagus among the healers -- I have come to be the main caregiver for a village boy of five years old, named Manuelito, who was recently bitten by a werewolf, one killed that same night by the boy's older brother. He, as you might guess, imbibes the Wolfsbane Potion, and I have been tutored in its creation by the institute's Potions expert. It is an extremely difficult potion and I again admire your skill in brewing it. I have little hope to be proficient in its creation any time soon. 

Other than the utterly adorable Manuelito, I spend a great deal of my day working with short-term patients and I've assisted the trained healers in dozens of everyday magical maladies as well as some nastier accident clean-ups and a few duels-gone-badly. I think that I've learned more in the short time I've been here than I ever did about mediwizardry from any book or theoretical course, which I guess is the point of it. Like Harry, I find it difficult to believe that I can love a life where books are not the main focus of learning. 

Not that I don't have books -- I still spend most of my free evenings either reading medical books or writing these letters, so it's not as if I've abandoned books entirely. Still, it's nice to feel as if I can trust my own instincts without needing to consult the books first. 

I had this letter aside with intentions of finishing it in the morning, but my sleep was interrupted tonight by a very strange thing -- singing and guitar playing. It appears that my bungalow-mate's betrothed decided to surprise her for her birthday with a visit -- and he brought a mariachi band with him! Marisol, my bungalow-mate, tells me that it's a traditional serenata and that it's supposed to wake the whole house at ungodly hours. As I write, she's beaming at her Carlos as she serves everyone, myself and the band included, coffee and sweet rolls. 

Well, at least the interruption gave me a chance to finish this letter even if I'll never be able to keep my eyes open in the morning. I know you'd be dreadfully disappointed if you had to wait too long for one to arrive. 

Sincerely,  
HG

----

Miss Granger, 

I'm sorry that I've not had the time to answer your last letter but there was an attack two days ago -- three different homes targeted in one night, leaving two dead among the three families. It has had a devastating effect on the general sanity of the community and to say that the populace has degenerated into hysteria would be a gross understatement. After so long a time with nothing but petty acts of sabotage, many had been lulled into a false sense of security. 

I, however, was not and, as you said in one of your earlier letters, the earlier calm had begun to make me uneasy. I now understand why. 

I don't know if you'll already know of the attack by the time this reaches you but I wanted to assure you that none of the three households targeted were the Weasleys'. I know that you are close to the family. Enclosed with this letter I have sent a clipping about the attacks that ran in the Prophet. As erroneous as they have tendency to be, the broadest facts of the article are correct. 

It is a sad reminder of the dangerous times in which we live. Sometimes, in the moments of brief respite from them, it is easy to forget the darkness which surrounds us.  
  
SS 

PS - At times such as these, I'm very glad that you are a safe 10,000 kilometers away.

----

Professor Snape, 

Thank you for your letter and the clipping. A small article on the attacks did make one of the internationally-inclined newspaper available here in Nazca but there were none of the detail of Prophet one. You're right, of course -- it is easy to forget, especially here, so far away from it all. The distance doesn't stop me from worrying about the people I care about: Harry, Ron, all the Weasleys, Remus…and you. I worry great deal about my parents, too, though they can't really appreciate the danger surrounding them. Despite everything they have seen and experienced in regard to the wizarding world, it still isn't quite real for them. 

I've noticed that we rarely mention in the war in these letters as well, although I'm sure that it is as constant in your mind as it is mine. I do hear about the war, of course but mostly in letters from Harry and Ginny or from the bit of mail I've received from Remus. Occasionally, as I've mentioned, the local paper will carry a tiny piece about the "disruptive troubles in the UK" but wizards and witches here are largely ignorant of what the British wizarding community is facing. At least at Trinity, most people knew of Voldemort; but here, phrases such as You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named are nothing more than casual expressions. 

I still feel a bit guilty, sometimes, when I read a letter from Ginny or Harry and hear about what they're facing back home and compare it to what is happening here. Not that it's a picnic for us here -- there's sickness and death and pain but it somehow seems more _natural_ when it's disease that causes them and not the sick and twisted designs of a mad man. 

Did I ever tell you why I decided not to follow Harry and Ron into the Auror program? I seriously considered it, at one time. But after having faced the dangers we did in our sixth year, I knew that I was not made for battle. Defense, yes. But, battle? No. I don't think I could ever live with myself if I ever took a life, even in defense of my own. That must sound horribly naïve and childish to you, but it's how I feel. 

I hate to end on such a depressing note but it's very late and I'll be up all night tomorrow so I must get some sleep. Full moon, you know, and Manuelito depends on me for company. 

Take care of yourself. 

Sincerely,  
Hermione

----

My dearest niece, 

I have to admit that I was surprised to get a letter from you. Since it was summer, I would have suspected that you would simply call me and not bother with stamps and international postal services and all that. So, I called you -- only to find out that you've moved to Peru! Your mother, I take it, wasn't happy about the decision? She seemed quite determined to blame me for being a bad influence on you and I haven't seen you in person since you came to visit me in France all those summers ago. I don't know what she was talking about. You didn't tell her about the lingerie, did you? 

Before I discuss the interesting topic of your letter, I must say that I'm extremely proud of you for going to Peru. Really, I am! And not just because your mother hates the idea. Young people need to expand their horizons and nothing does that better than travel. I'm glad to see that you've done something, especially since it's something Carolina said you were quite forceful about. Life is to be enjoyed, cara. Have a smashing time! 

Now, about your "problem" -- no wonder your mother is under the impression that I've been corrupting you! It sounds like a problem that I've encountered a few times in my life. As you might remember, your nonna has never been very pleased with the men in my life. So, you've fallen in love with a man you think is wildly inappropriate and you don't know what to do about it, hm? I can see why you didn't want to call me and risk the slightest chance that Carolina would overhear this conversation. Don't worry -- I didn't even mention the letter to her. 

As for advice, Hermione, I'm not sure what to tell you. It seemed obvious to me from your letter that you're afraid to tell this mystery man how you feel. (By the way, you never said why you thought he was inappropriate...) And the only advice that I could give you which is different from what you've been doing (that being, nothing) is to tell you to go for it. 

So that's my advice, love -- tell him how you feel. I know that sounds terribly difficult but, in the end, it's the only thing you can do. Either tell him and see if he wants to be inappropriate with you or get over him and move on. Tried that second one, haven't you? And it didn't work, did it? You've got it bad, cara. 

I don't see why you're so worried about rejection either. It's obvious he's interested in you or else he wouldn't keep writing you or buying you gifts. For heaven's sakes, girl, didn't your mother teach you anything about men? They don't buy jewelry lightly and certainly not for platonic friends and associates. 

Notice that I haven't even addressed the fact that you seem to be convinced that this man is inappropriate choice for you because I don't think he is. Hermione, love, with the exception of your tightass mother, you are the most upright person I know. I don't think for a minute that if you can love this man that he's so terrible. I think you're just too worried about what others are going to think. And, when it comes to your love life, you can't do that. 

If I had done that, I never would have been married either time. 

If he makes you happy and you make him happy, then all's well in the world. So, tell him how you feel and put that Christmas present to good use, okay? 

all my love,  
Sophia

----

Hermione, 

Have we told you how much Maureen and I miss you here at Trinity? We do! With you and Wyatt gone, it just isn't the same around here. For one, Maureen is driving me crazy because she has no else to bother now. Well, that's not true. It seems that she and Craig have actually become pretty good friends. And while he's not here as often as he was last term, he still shows up at least once a week. 

Personally, I think it's a bit weird but no one has asked me. 

Oh, Maureen (who is now reading over my shoulder and complaining about the Craig comments) says hello and wants to asked you -- I quote -- "who in the hell are you so hung up on?" 

See, what I said? She and Craig. Weird. 

Don't pay her any attention. I think she's had a little too much caffeine today. She's got a huge project due in the one Muggle class she's taking this term and she's been awake for two days straight, trying to find somewhere she can type it up on a Muggle computer. 

No, I don't feel sorry for you, Maureen. Go away. 

How are you liking Peru? I know it must be hard work, actually working all day with patients and potions and all. Have you had any time to look around Nazca, maybe see the geoglyphs? I bet they're impressive from a good broom height. Just don't work too hard! I know how you are and without us (especially Maureen) to drag you away to have a bit of fun, I doubt you take one minute of rest for yourself. Bad girl, if you don't! 

Speaking of Wyatt, did you receive your invitation to his wedding? He told me that he ran into you at the Hogsmeade Midsummer festival and you finally had a chance to meet Victoria. She's very nice, don't you think? And she and Wyatt are so much in love -- it's very cute to see them fawning over each other. I can't wait for the wedding. I've already picked out the perfect gift. Because of the wedding, Maureen and I will probably be staying in Britain for all of winter break. Hopefully, we'll be able to get together before you head back to Peru. 

best wishes,  
Elena (& Maureen)

----

Miss Granger, 

I'm sorry that I was not able to reply to your last missive in a more timely manner and I must also apologize that this owl will not be very long. Something has occurred that requires my immediate attention and I will be leaving Hogwarts for an indefinite period of time. Communication while on my -- sabbatical -- will be impossible. 

I hope to return to Hogwarts before Halloween, but even that is not assured. 

While I can give you no more details than that, I wanted to let you know. I promise to write you again once I am able. 

Your servant,  
SS

----

Hermione, 

I'm sorry that I can't give you much information because I was afraid to simply come out and ask someone. How was I supposed to explain a sudden interest in Snape's business? Anyway, I found out from Professor Lupin that Snape did, indeed, leave Hogwarts and no one has seen him since. He was a bit vague on whether it was for specific Order business but he implied that it was for the Cause, although I'm not sure of the difference. Snape's even been replaced at Hogwarts with a new potions professor and Professor Sinistra has taken over Head of Slytherin duties. The last time that anybody will admit to having seen or heard from him was weeks ago, right about the same time he must have sent your letter. Nobody knows anything else about him. 

I'm sorry, Hermione. 

Love,  
Ginny

-----

Hermione sighed and gently replaced Ginny's last letter on top of the stack of folded parchments inside the decoratively carved wooden box that sat on her lap. It was a beautiful thing, hand-crafted; she had bought when she had Marisol had visited a local village on one of their rare days off. But she had little eye for its beauty and admired it only for the practical purpose it served as a container. 

Every owl and letter she had received since she had come to Peru lay within the tahuari box, each a tiny thread connecting her to the life she'd left in Britain in order to fulfill the needs that had led her to study at Nazca. She sighed again and closed the lid, settling the small box more comfortable against her her folded legs as she shifted position, moving so that she could stare out of the window of the small cottage that she shared with the other new apprentice. 

Outside the sky was dark, shrouded in night, the stars starkly visible in a place so removed from urban centers and the light population they exuded. The arid plains of the pampa lay blue in the darkness, and the other buildings which made up the Nazca Institute of the Healing Arts were smudgy shadows against the outline of the mountains which rose in the eastern horizon. Though a few small lights flickered from the windows of the hospital proper, most of the buildings were dark and still, testaments to the fact that most of the residents of the Institute slept behind their closed shutters and doors. 

Not Hermione, however. Even as Marisol slept peacefully in her small, single room at the other end of the cottage, Hermione sat in the curve of the sitting area's -- much too small to be considered a sitting room, especially since it flowed without break into the tiny kitchen area -- one, large window, the fluttering white curtains pushed aside so that she could gaze unimpeded out through the clear pane. 

She had been in Peru since early July; it was now but one day from November. Halloween -- Snape's self-imposed deadline -- had come and gone with no verifiable sighting of him by any Order member of which Hermione knew. Aside from Ginny, Remus has written her with similar news, his gently sympathetic words no salve to the hole his news had left in her heart. It had been months -- one month, two weeks, and three days -- with no word of him, no evidence to refute the fear in her heart that he'd died somewhere, alone and forgotten. 

_Not forgotten,_ she chided herself. She had not forgotten him, nor was she soon likely to do so. Every moment of her time that was not consciously, seepingly filled with another active thought had turned to thoughts of him from the first time she'd read that ominous letter of good-bye. She'd thought, at first, that the pain and worry and love that had lodged itself like a leaden ball in her chest would surely expand until there was nothing left of her but that pain. Hermione had never thought, when she'd spoken to Ginny that summer, that she'd ever learn how to live with such knowledge weighing in her mind. She had been so sure that she'd simply go mad from it all. 

But she hadn't -- much to her surprise. Hermione had, instead, wrapped that quivering mass of incoherent, volatile emotions in an icy cloak, leaving her with an echoing ache -- painful but easier to live with, especially when she could fill her time with so much activity: with patients and Manuelito, and tomes to study and healing charms to perfect, rare visits to nearby Muggle and Magical communities with the other apprentices. Over time, her duty hours in the hospital had become the easiest for her because there she could lose herself in the sharpness of someone else's pain, apply her mind and skills to alleviating it and actually make something broken whole again. 

If only she knew how to do that to her own heart, she might have been able to sleep. 

Even with the pain, there was an unreality to it -- for Hermione had never seriously thought that she could lose Snape. Of course, she'd never actually had thought that she'd have him either, but the idea of him dying, though an abstract concern, had never actually penetrated into her mind. He was a pillar, an anchoring rock; like Dumbledore or McGonagall, the thought that he wouldn't remain as much a fixture at Hogwarts as the great hall's enchanted ceiling was unfathomable in rational thought. Even while she had worried, she'd clung to the facade of invincibility he had perfected, despite her knowledge that it was simply that. 

Hermione knew that she needed to sleep; she hadn't been sleeping well for weeks and Marisol was beginning to worry about her. The last thing she wanted was for La Profesora to have a reason to limit her shifts or doubt her ability to perform her duties. But even the long hours of physical activity in which she'd indulged that morning and afternoon had failed to tire her mind sufficiently, though her body begged for rest. Muscles sore and fatigued from the miles she had walked with Joao, Robert and Alicia, Hermione still could not force her mind to still its buzzing thoughts so that sleep could offer its bleak comfort. 

She couldn't stop herself from being worried, or sick with despair. She couldn't make herself stop caring any more than she could make herself sleep. 

With a deep breath, Hermione unfolded her limbs and stood, the box under her arm as she walked quietly through the sitting room-slash-kitchen and into the small room which acted as her bedroom. Books were piled haphazardly over every available surface, odds and ends spilling across the desk and night-stand and her traveling chest stacked neatly in one corner. Only the dresser-top held any semblance to neatness where on its lace-covered surface sat the Idol, along with the scagliola slate jewelry box her grandfather had given her that same Christmas and a few other important knick-knacks she'd brought with her. 

She placed the wooden box in its niche beside the Idol and ran one finger lovingly over its smooth surface, down one thin arm until the pads of her fingers ghosted over the golden ball the figure held. "Purity of mind, Hermione," she reminded herself, recalling Snape's words on the note that had come with the gift. "A healer must banish from herself fear and uncertainty." 

With the resignation of a woman who knew no actual rest would be possible, Hermione stretched down in her narrow bed, wand tucked within easy reach. With her face buried against the plump pillows and the coverlet tucked tight around her, Hermione closed her eyes and hoped that the remainder of the night would pass more easily than the first of it had. 

It would not. 

----

_Author's Notes_: I really dislike and the way it chews up my HTML code. Why do they bother to accept .html format when they royally screw it up? My apologies to anyone who is confused by the way the letters run together; it isn't my fault -- it's 's. Apparently, they arbitrarily strip break line codes for NO apparent reason. 

My betas both suggested that I add dates in with the letters but I found that I couldn't, not to my satisfaction. So if you find the sans date format confusing, I apologize. There will be more action in the next update, I promise! 

For updates about notices, keep your eyes on my livejournal where my username is **regann**. All information about the when/why/how/why not of updates can be found there. 

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to **Kel** and **rhitmcshanm** who did the beta work on this part. Any problems still here are products of my own stupidity. 

If you are so inclined, leave a review.


	19. When this battle is over

**Heart over mind : Part XIX  
When this battle is over  
**

----

When she'd finally dragged herself to bed in the early morning hours of November 1st, Hermione prayed for a little peace. 

None came. 

Not two hours later, she jerked out of her restless sleep, gripped by a fiery pain that filled her with the utter certainty that she was going to die. 

The pain -- piercing, feverish -- started in her lower back, quickly spreading up and around her body until it choked the breath from her burning lungs, leaving her gasping as she flung herself into a sitting position, dimly aware of a woman's scream fading from her ears. She clutched at her sides, panting, dazed as she realized that the scream had come from her own ragged throat. 

She glanced wildly into the darkened corners of her small bedroom, one hand groping for her wand as her mind flew through the last images she recalled: Death Eaters, thick trees, unmoving bodies, fire and smoke…then the horrible pain and darkness... 

A dream, she suddenly realized. 

Hermione let out a shaky breath and relaxed her tense muscles, wincing at the ache still echoing in her sides and back. She carefully released her wand to let it fall to the tangled bed sheets at her side before burying her face in her hands, shuddering inhalations working to stem the tears gathering behind her eyelids. 

It had just been a dream -- a vivid one -- but simply a dream. 

Dream or not, Hermione's sides still stung with remembered agony and her hands still shook from the overpowering rush of adrenaline that had coursed through her system, just as the ghostly images -- already losing their visceral edge in her mind's eye -- still called tears to her eyes, made her shudder at the thought. 

In the awful quiet that followed, Hermione discerned the sounds of footsteps scurrying in her direction, quickly moving closer until the bedroom door was opened. Marisol's shadowed shape was silhouetted in the doorway by lamplight from the sitting room pouring into the darkness of her bedroom. 

"Hermione?" came Marisol's sleep-laden voice, concerned. "What's wrong? Are you alright?" 

She squinted against the light, raising a hand to shield her eyes. "I'm fine, Marisol. Everything's fine." 

"I heard your scream," she ventured in veiled disagreement. 

Hermione sighed. "It was just a bad dream. Nothing to worry yourself over." She pushed her wild hair away from her face in exasperation. "Although I think it's quite likely that I won't be getting any sleep tonight." 

Marisol's tawny eyes were bright with concern as she nodded cajolingly. "Come in here and I'll make us something and we can talk about it. There's no need for you to suffer alone." 

"Marisol..." 

The young woman shook her head to stave off any arguments. "Consider it a return of the favor when you lost sleep over Carlos and his serenata. Come, I'll make you some of that tea you drink." Without giving her friend a chance to disagree, Marisol headed back toward the small kitchenette. 

Defeated, Hermione pushed away the coverlet and stood up, moving gingerly as she abandoned her bedroom and any pretense of resting that night. With her wand tucked into the pocket of her loose pajamas, she lumbered into the kitchenette, limbs heavy with fatigue and thoughts equally leaden. She took a seat at the narrow table which served as a dining surface while Marisol filled the kettle and collected mugs and tea bags and powdered cocoa. A few minutes later, Hermione had a steaming mug of chamomile tea while her bungalow-mate sipped thick, hot chocolate. 

"Would you like to talk about the dream?" Marisol asked softly after a few moments of absolute stillness. Her English was heavily accented but quite articulate and the combination reminded Hermione achingly of her grandmother's way of speech. 

"It was just a dream," she finally managed to answer, swallowing against another rush of watery emotions. She rolled her shoulders and winced. "And that's the last time that I let Joao or Robert talk me into going hiking with them. I hurt all over. Days off are supposed to be for rest. I feel like I've been trampled by a hippogriff." 

"That is why I stayed here and rested," the other girl smiled slightly. "I spent the day writing to my Carlos and my sister, Esperanza." 

Hermione answered with an anemic smile of her own. "Smart girl." 

Marisol sobered. "You should tell Señora Luisa that you are having such problems sleeping. She will help you, I'm sure." More softly, she added. "Everyone understands, mi amiga." 

She snorted in good-natured impatience. "I don't want to be understood," she told the other apprentice. "I want to be able to do my job as well as anyone else without any considerations. I don't want to need to _be_ understood." 

The black-haired girl squeezed her arm in sympathy. Marisol looked as if she were about to say something more when a loud thunderous knock sounded on the front door to their cottage, both young witches jumping in surprise. 

Hermione was on her feet with wand in hand before Marisol, a hand pressed to her heart, called out, "Who's there?" 

"Marisol? Hermione?" Though muffled by the wood of the door, the female voice was unmistakable. It was Carmen, one of Nazca's fully trained Healers. "Open the door." 

Hermione, already standing, rushed over to comply, unlocking the door and opening it so that the plump, middle-aged Healer could enter, her bright blue robe -- the symbol of Nazca Healers -- wrapped tightly around her round body. Carmen's face was troubled and she glanced uneasily over at Hermione as Marisol rose from her seat. 

"You were both awake, yes?" Carmen asked as she examined them, noting the mugs on the table. 

Hermione nodded. "My fault," she said. "I couldn't sleep." 

Carmen narrowed her eyes appraisingly. "Have you already heard the news, then? About your home?" 

Hermione could feel the blood draining from her face as she shook her head in silent horror. "No," she forced her lips to reply, fingers bone-crushingly tight around her wand. "I haven't heard anything." 

"What's happened, Señora Carmen?" Marisol asked impatiently. 

The elder witch remained focused on Hermione. "Luisa sent me for you," she explained tersely. "A message has arrived for you -- very urgent." 

"Message? When did it arrive?" she demanded, trying to remain calm. 

"The messenger arrived just in these few moments," Carmen assured her. She gestured toward the bedroom with her long ebony wand. "Go, quickly. Get dressed and I will take you to the hospital where he waits for you." 

While Hermione had little desire to waste time in getting dressed, she obeyed the Healer's command, shrugging out of her pajamas and into whatever clean clothes she could find in the dim light. A few minutes later, she emerged from her room in a faded denim skirt, pulling an oversized sweatshirt over the tank-top she'd been wearing. Her hair, tangled and un-brushed, had been hastily tied up in a ponytail. 

Carmen nodded, collecting Hermione's Nazca Healing robes from the peg where she and Marisol kept them near their front door. "We will go now," she told her, handing her the robes and nodding good-night to Marisol. 

"It will be fine," Marisol tried to assure her fellow apprentice as they watched their teacher stride out into the chilly darkness. 

Hermione nodded and scurried after the fast-moving Healer, almost running to match her gait as they approached the main complex of the institution. Instead of turning into the hospital area, the witches ducked down another winding corridor until they came to a cozy, threadbare room which acted as a sort of lounge area for the Healers and the apprentices. Luisa was already there, looking as if she, too, had been roused from a sound sleep, as bleary-eyed and disheveled as Carmen or Marisol. There with her was a burly young man with striking blue eyes who managed a wan smile at the sight of Hermione even though his whole air exuded grim news. 

"Hermione..." he said by way of greeting, his voice gravely quiet. 

"Craig!" she exclaimed in astonishment that quickly melted into uncontrollable panic. "Oh my god!" She threw herself at him in frenzied horror, clawing at him in need to hold onto something. "You promised me that you'd come if --" 

"If something happened," he finished, gently taking her by the arms. "That I did, old girl. And something's happened, all right. It's Hogwarts, Hermione. It's been attacked." 

From wherever Hermione had managed lock away her fear, grief and worry, it flooded over her, as if Craig's words had broken the dam that had held back the tide. She dug her nails deeper into the skin of his arms. "What happened? Who --- won?" 

"That I dunna know," he admitted roughly. "Just as I promised ye, I came as soon I heard. Angus let me go to bring ye back with me to Ireland." He paused, eyes dropping with fatigue. "I've been traveling for hours just to get here. I forget to ask Angus for a portkey and so I had to take the long route." 

Hermione remembered her own long journey from Britain to Peru, the litany of International Apparition Points and Intercontinental Floo Systems through which she'd traveled and felt a surge of affection well in her for the Irish Auror. "How long ago did the battle start?" 

"I think, about four hours ago," he revealed. "There's still no word from anyone about what's happening, so we won't know until we get back to Ireland. If Angus is still in his offices, he'll know." 

Hermione turned to her mentor, expression stricken. "Luisa...please, I..." 

"Of course you may go," the Spanish witch assured her, a soft expression on her gentle features. "In fact, if you and Señor Shannon will allow me a few moments, I will be pleased to construct a portkey for your return trip. It is one of the privileges of being a mediwitch, you see." 

While Luisa and Carmen hurried to get things in order for Hermione to leave, Craig filled her in on the little information that he had about the attack on Hogwarts. "It started in the middle of the night," he explained. "Sometime between 2AM and 3AM -- from the early reports it was a huge group of Death Eaters, in hoods and masks, that attacked. They stormed Hogwarts proper after making a quick run through Hogsmeade." 

"What else?" Hermione questioned, noticing the hesitant look on Craig's face as he paused in his narrative. Though she had stopped her assault on his arm by her nails, she grabbed one of his hands in hers and clutched at it. It was the only lingering sign of chaotic emotional and mental state, all traces of panic willed away until she was left pale and haggard but composed. "Tell me, Craig." 

"The rumor is that Harry Potter was at Hogwarts this evening for some reason," he told her, sadly. "There's a good chance that he was the target, or one of the targets. But it would have had to have been planned for a good long time, for them to think they could take Hogwarts." 

"So maybe he was there because he knew that Hogwarts was being targeted," Hermione offered softly. "It would be just like him. If he thought You-Know-Who was going to be there." She thought of Snape's letter and knew that it was no coincidence that the attack came on the same date as deadline. With a dawning horror, she realized that Craig's news meant that Snape was probably dead already; but she refused to give into that pain just then. Instead, she pushed it out of her mind and focused on her concern for Harry. 

"Mayhap," Craig echoed quietly. "But there was something about the report...Angus looked at us and told us, "This is it, lads. It ends tonight." I don't know what old Dumbledore's told him but that's what he told _us_." 

Time crawled while they waited for Luisa to arrange for a portkey, but it took less than an hour to procure it. Soon enough, Craig and Hermione were holding tightly onto coffee mug Luisa had charmed, the familiar effects of a portkey sweeping over her as she landed with sickening disorientation in Angus O'Malley's Ireland headquarters. She staggered but Craig kept her upright and the ceramic mug crashed and splintered against the floor where it had been dropped. 

It had been in the middle of the night when they'd left Peru; however, the portkey had brought them not only through space but through several time zones as well, so the morning sun was brightly visible through a window on the building's eastern face. 

"Well, if you two don't have timing to beat all!" 

Hermione, steadying herself, glanced in the direction of the heavily accented statement to see Angus O'Malley watching them, in the same wrinkled gray robes she'd remembered, his eyes still blood-shot and his thick lips a twisted line across his florid face. 

"Have you heard something, then, sir?" Craig asked him. 

The Irishman nodded. "Aye, I did." It was then Hermione noticed that his expression was not nearly as grave as it had been the night she'd first met him and her heart leaped with hope. "In fact, I just got off the hearth with a lady you might know, Miss Granger -- Minnie McGonagall -- and she tells me that everything's been done." Suddenly, he smiled, a disarming flash of white teeth against his ruddy jowls. "The Dark Lord has been defeated again -- for good this time." 

Craig let out a surprised gasp that choked into a shaky laugh while the burst of relief rushing over her body made Hermione weak in the knees. "How you heard about Harry?" she hastened to ask, glad that Craig still had a reassuring grip on her arm. "Is he alright?" 

"Harry Potter?" Angus clarified, continuing when Hermione nodded. "Aye, Minnie says that he's a bit banged-up but he'll recover. Blimey, that's twice the boy has survived to see the Dark Lord's fall -- it's nigh on a miracle!" 

Another, more forceful wave of relief swept over her, even as she turned anxiously to the elder Auror. "Mr. O'Malley, is there anyway I go to Hogwarts, right now? I have a great many friends who might be there ---" _and might not be_, she added silently. Even if Harry was safe and Voldemort was dead, there were such a thing as causalities, even for the victorious side. 

Snape, again, ghosted over her thoughts, but she still pushed it again. _I'm not ready yet, for that_, she told herself sternly. _Later._

Angus pursed his lips. "Well, not everybody can just walk up to this place right now," he told her. "It's swarming with Aurors -- some of our boys, too, actually -- and there's got to be healers on the scene and the injured and..." 

"Oh." 

"But," Angus went on determinedly. "I happen to be on my way there now, and with me and Shannon at yer side, ain't nobody goin' t' stop you. Come on, lass. I'll take ye to see yer friends." 

She threw her arms around the old wizard in thanks. 

A few minutes later, the three of them had Apparated -- Hermione was ever thankful for having her license, finally -- to a safe distance from the venerable boarding school. Hermione fought the urge to push pass the numerous Aurors and Ministry officials who stopped them on their way to the castle, each demanding reasons for their presence. O'Malley acted as if he were as impatient with them as Hermione was, shouting and waving his arms wildly every time one of them asked who he was and why he was there. 

"The name's Angus O'Malley, you eejit!" he hollered at the latest in the line of Aurors. "I'm the head of the Irish Ministry's Auror division and I've bloody well got business here! Now, if you don't let us through, I swear I'll --" 

The timely arrival of Arthur Weasley saved the young Auror from Angus's wrath and the three of them were ushered without preamble up to the castle, where still more officials milled about, along with various participants of the fighting -- many singed and bleeding -- as well as shell-shocked students who seemed dazed by what they must have witnessed. Hermione was about to ask Arthur, who had been in deep discussion with O'Malley, where she could find Harry when one of the many bloodied and battered broke away from the throng and rushed at her, the red hair unmistakable even underneath dirt and grime. 

"Ron!" 

"Oi! Hermione!" Before she could say anything more, she was swept up in a fierce hug that she returned enthusiastically before pulling away to grin up into her friend's lively face. The sight made tears prickle in her eyes but, this time, from sheer happiness. 

Ron's cheerful words reflected her joy. "Oh, are you a sight for sore eyes, even if you are as bright as a bloody peacock." 

She laughed, having forgotten that she wore her distinctively colored Nazca robes. "Same to you, Ron. Oh, I'm so glad that you're safe! Have you seen Harry?" 

"Not since I carted him off to the hospital wing," he admitted. "But Professor McGonagall said he was going to be fine." 

She nodded, relief so overwhelming that it was like a pain. "How about any others? Have you heard?" 

His opened expression shuttered slightly. "There have been some -- deaths," he admitted. "Mostly, that I know of, are people I knew from the Auror ranks, not so many from school." He looked decidedly pained as he added, "Lupin's unaccounted for, at last I heard. He went after that mad LeStrange woman by himself and..." 

She nodded in understanding and allowed him to leave the sentence unfinished. He quickly pressed onward. "I've got to stay out here at my post," he told her, "but you should go on up to the hospital wing and see Harry. Report back to me in a bit, okay?" 

Hermione promised to do just that before she strode purposefully into the entrance halls of Hogwarts castle, her head held high as she dodged the harried looks of the officials working around her. She refused to let them question her about why she was there, luck having it that most of them were too busy to notice. For the first time, as she headed from the main hall up toward the hospital wing, she saw captured Death Eaters, many of them hunched over, clutching their left arm as if it caused them a great deal of pain. She thought she saw a flash of pale hair in the group, but she didn't look back, even though she felt that Lucius Malfoy -- if it were he -- would be the most logical person to confront if she wanted to know what had happened to Snape. 

_Later,_ she vowed. 

Hermione climbed the crooking staircases, slightly winded, unused to the size and height of the Hogwarts castle after spending months prowling around the low-level buildings of the Nazca institute. Almost convinced that she'd taken a wrong turn and that she'd never reach the hospital wing, Hermione trotted up another flight and followed the turn of the stairs, only to come upon a slouching figure huddled against the wall with one hand cradling his right shoulder. As quickly as she registered his presence, Hermione also noticed the short, pale hair and gray eyes half-hidden behind lids sliding closed in pain. 

"Malfoy?" 

Draco Malfoy started in surprise, head whipping up at the sound of his name. He raked his eyes over Hermione. "Granger," he grated, throat hoarse. Hermione realized that he had no wand that she could see. 

She, by instinct, held hers tightly in her hand. 

"What are you doing here?" 

"Writhing in pain, what does it look like?" 

She nodded, eyes appraising the bloodied gash and burnt flesh of his upper arm where the sleeve had torn away. She recognized the symptoms and knew that the injury had been caused by a very nasty curse. 

"Here," she said, kneeling at his side. "Let me look at it." 

"What?" Malfoy scoffed, managing to sneer through his pain. "You, help me? For all you know I'm a big, bad Death Eater. You not afraid?" 

She snorted. "Malfoy, really. I have a wand; you don't appear to and even if you did, we're in a building full of Aurors and I doubt you could pull a wand on me before I could hex you six ways to Sunday. I'm fairly safe, I think." 

"Well, aren't you the brave little Gryffindor," he intoned sarcastically, though he did not argue with her assertions. Taking his sulky silence as permission, she removed his hand from the wound and examined it gently. He flinched at her touch and she sourly realized that she couldn't be certain if he flinched in pain at her probing fingers or in disgust at the idea of being touched by someone he considered so filthy. 

The wound was messy, but not life-threatening and Hermione knew exactly how to treat it. She felt herself slipping into "healer-mode," her professional skills taking over as she sterilized the wound, cast a sequence of three spells that would begin the healing process, and finally ending with a gentle numbing charm which would ease the pain until a more effective potion could be administered. Even as she wrapped the wound in bandages she'd transfigured from the torn fabric of his destroyed shirt sleeve, Malfoy's aristocratic features had become softer in response to the pain's decrease. 

"That should do it, Malfoy," Hermione told him stiffly as she rose to her feet. "You might want to get some kind of pain-killing potion in the next few hours, though." 

Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and continued up the stairs, sweeping past him. She was almost out of his sight when he called out. "Granger!" 

She stopped, peaked over her shoulder. "Yes?" 

"Why did you help me?" he asked her, his tone insulted as if he accused her of doing something despicable. 

She rolled her eyes and straightened her spine. "I'm not you, Malfoy," she retorted as if it explained everything. 

In Hermione's mind, it did. 

She left him sitting dazedly on the stairs, his eyes gone hollow with something other than physical pain. 

After all of the distractions -- and stairs -- Hermione finally reached the hospital wing, the infirmary overflowing with injured students and young people, so many that sometimes two and three patients perched on one cot. Amidst the frenzy, Hermione's eyes found Madam Pomfrey as she hurried from one bed to the other, looking as stressed as the girl had ever seen her. 

She did not, however, see Harry. 

"Madam Pomfrey!" she called, stepping over and around the patients clogging the space. 

The mediwitch looked up, surprised. "Hermione, what are you doing here?" 

"I came to see Harry," she admitted. "But I can also offer you my services as an apprenticed mediwitch." 

The lines in Pomfrey's face eased a fraction. "Mr. Potter is behind that curtain," she explained, pointing toward the one little area blocked from view by screens. "After you assured yourself that he'll be fine -- which he will -- come back out here and get to work. These fancy Healers from St. Mungo's have no bedside manner and no idea how to manage children." It was then that Hermione spotted the two figures in the room wearing horrible lime-green robes. 

She didn't need to be told twice; she quickly crossed the crowded room and quietly skirted around privacy screens until she was looking down into the sleep-slackened face of her best friend in the world. Hermione fought the urge to gather him into a bone-crushing hug; Harry had always been shy of such physical affection and she certainly didn't want to wake him. 

He looked so much younger than his nineteen years, she noted, dark lashes against his ashen cheeks, glasses having been removed from his face. His hair was as messy as ever and Hermione couldn't deny the impulse to run her hands lightly over his forehead and through that fringe of hair which fell into his eyes, much as a mother would soothe a feverish child. Though her touch was light, Harry's lids slid open and she beamed down at him as he struggled to wake. 

"Hey," he greeted her softly, obviously groggy. 

"Hey yourself," she answered back, still smiling as she perched on the edge of his hospital bed as she had so many times before. 

"What are you doing here? Thought you were in Peru." 

"I was," she told him, running a hand over him to make sure he didn't try and sit up. "But how could I stay away when I heard that you were going up against Voldemort?" She said the word with no fear, now that her friend had defeated him. 

"I did it," he told her, suddenly fierce. "He's gone forever, 'Mione." 

"I know," she soothed. "You were brilliant." He smiled sleepily. "Thanks." He seemed to want to say more, but Hermione dissuaded him. 

"You rest now, Harry," she advised, holding his hand in hers. "Don't worry; I'll be here when you wake up and we'll talk. Me, you _and_ Ron. Like old times, okay?" 

He nodded, at ease and already half-asleep again. Hermione surmised that Madam Pomfrey must have given a very strong sleeping draught to keep him quiet while he healed. Hermione didn't see any outward injuries other than a few cuts and scrapes on his skin, but she could only imagine the raw power he had utilized in defeating the Dark Lord. She released his hand, and tucked the covers more snugly around his sleeping form before she left his side to help Pomfrey tend the other wounded. 

Just as she had numerous times at Nazca, Hermione allowed her mind to compartmentalize her worry into a forgotten little corner so that she could concentrate on helping those who needed her. She started with the younger students, mostly first and second years, who had been injured not in actual fighting but from structural damage and other effects-of-war. Their injuries were minor, but they were very shaken up; Hermione spent more time with them than strictly necessary, trying to soothe their frazzled nerves before moving on to help the older students who waited with stoic patience to be tended. 

Hermione wasn't certain how long she'd been working in the hospital wing, but the number of unattended patients slowly dwindled between the combined efforts of Madam Pomfrey, the two St. Mungo's healers and herself. 

Still, even as they worked, newly injured arrived, most of them upperclassmen who had fought in the last battle. One young Ravenclaw whom Hermione had remembered from her own days at Hogwarts was carried into the hospital wing by her two classmates, her leg as badly burned as if it had been held in a roaring fire and roasted. Hermione choked down her own disgust at the sight of the charred flesh and quickly assessed the damage, after directing the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw to settle their injured friend one of the now-empty cots. 

"I'll be right back," she assured the girl who was gamely trying to control her pain. "There are some potions I need." 

Hermione was searching the Potions cabinet when Madam Pomfrey came up beside her to grab a few more doses of basic healing draughts. 

"Do you have any of that burn paste?" she asked the older witch, hands still buried deeply as she sorted through the neatly labeled bottles in the cabinet. She suppressed the ache she felt at the sight of the familiar handwriting. "I've got a bad burn on Clarissa's leg and I need to get the heat down quickly as possible." 

Pomfrey shook her head. "I've run out of it already. I would have had some more on hand if not that Severus..." 

Hermione's heart contracted. "Has anyone heard from him since he left?" 

Pomfrey shook his head, sadly. "I haven't and no one has mentioned it to me if they had." As if it were too painful to bear, the mediwitch bustled off, her hands heavy with bottles. 

Hermione sighed shakily and gathered her thoughts. She reached for two less effective potions she hoped would closely enough mimic the effects she needed, her hands spasmodically tightening around the neck of the aloe-based cooling salve container. 

It was difficult, but Hermione managed to pull the magically-induced heat from Clarrissa's blistered and bloody leg and slowly smothered it in the aloe-cool gel she had once helped Snape prepare in his private laboratory. By now, Hermione had shed the sweatshirt she'd worn under her blue robes and even they were left unclasped and hanging from her shoulders as the temperature seemed to rise in the room from the number of bodies packed into the area. 

Finally, the aloe cooled the burning pain and Clarissa's eyes became more focused. She smiled timidly at Hermione, her blue eyes watching Hermione's hands as they worked. "Thanks, Hermione." 

"You're welcome; I'm just glad that the aloe is finally starting to do its job," Hermione returned. "How's the pain?" 

"Manageable," she confided. "I'm no longer begging Jacob to cut it off, at least." 

"Like I was going to listen to your nattering anyway," Jacob, the other Ravenclaw, told her. Hermione noted that he looked relieved by his friend's progress. 

"Just rest for now," she advised as she wiped her hands on the hem of her robe. "Try not to put any pressure on those blisters because we don't want them bursting." At Clarissa's pinched expression, she added. "Yes, well...it's not a fun thing." 

By now, the noise in the infirmary had settled to a dull roar as the uninjured prefects had come and escorted those relatively healthy students back to their common rooms. Only those who were in need of extended hospital time were still in the wing, and most of them, like Clarissa and Harry, were not in the mood for long conversations. 

With no more patients left to treat within the hospital wing, the St. Mungo's healers excused themselves to join the remainder of their colleagues who were still out around the castle grounds working triage, leaving Madam Pomfrey and Hermione alone in the infirmary. The resident mediwitch patted Hermione's hand as she hurried by, still busy with the administrative tasks of records and files while Hermione found an empty visitor's chair and pulled it up to Harry's side. Her friend was still sleeping, but Pomfrey had moved the screens away from his bed now that the wing had reached an manageable, if not usual, level of activity. 

As soon as she sank into the cushions of the squashy, orange chair, the exhaustion that had haunted Hermione came upon her and she couldn't have kept her eyes opened if she'd wanted to. With her bright blue robes as a blanket and her sweatshirt balled up under her head as a pillow, she finally was able to sleep without any phantom enemies to chase her through her dreams. 

It seemed as soon as she closed her eyes that Hermione became aware of someone gently shaking her but as she struggled to wake, she noticed that the sun was coming through the windows of the hospital wing at an more advanced angle than it had been when she had decided to rest. She raised bleary eyes to the person shaking her, only to see Craig's blue eyes smiling down at her. 

"Craig," she murmured, still not quite awake. 

"Yes, Craig," he teased. "The bloke that brought you here and who you abandoned at the first hint of someone better." 

She suddenly remembered leaving him with Mr. Weasley and Mr. O'Malley as soon as she had seen Ron. "I'm sorry about that. I---" 

He waved away her apology with his free hand, the occupied one balancing a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of iced pumpkin juice. "That red headed guy -- Ron, right? -- he told me to tell you that he couldn't get away right now but as soon as Moody was through with him, he'd be back to check on Harry." He paused to point toward his burden. "And that bossy little healer in the mob cap told me to bring you something to eat, because she assumed you'd need it. Who is she, anyway?" 

"Madam Pomfrey," she informed as she took the tray from him, settling it on Harry's unused nightstand. Craig grabbed himself a chair and pulled it alongside Hermione's. "And thank you, for the food. Now that I think about it, I am rather hungry." 

As the two of them -- apparently, Craig was as hungry as she -- made quick work on the sandwiches and juice, the young Auror told Hermione all of the details he'd gleaned while going about his business with O'Malley. "There was a surprisingly small number of causalities," Craig told her. "I'd wager that Dumbledore had to have some kind of warning ahead of time, judging by the way this all turned out." Craig gulped down the last of his juice. "I've heard rumors that Dumbledore's Order had a spy working for them, someone with a real inside with the Death Eaters. You know anything about that?" The calm mood Hermione had cultivated so carefully quickly crumbled, the blood draining from her face. "I can't say that I do," she told him faintly. _Not now...I can't do this now._

There was an awkward silence, as if Craig realized -- too late -- that his question had hurt Hermione in some way. He cleared this throat nervously as she made an elaborate production of straightening the empty plates and glassware on the tray. 

The uneasy silence stretched between them so long that Craig looked relieved when he heard the sounds of approaching feet and two male voices talking, loud enough to be discernible as noise but too quiet for any more distinction to be made. 

Hermione had stood up and moved the empty tray away from Harry's bedside before she began to busy herself with changing the linen on one of the empty beds left in the infirmary. She was bent over, doing straightening the sheet over the mattress when Dumbledore sauntered into the infirmary, looking as hale and happy as he always did. She was about to smile at that constant -- old wise Dumbledore looking both supremely and serenely in command of the universe -- when his companion stepped completely into the wing behind him, the two of them conferring in low tones. 

Though his robes were ragged and torn, his face streaked with dirt and dried blood, and his defeated posture radiated exhaustion, he was the most glorious sight Hermione had ever seen because he was wonderfully, inexplicably alive. 

She must have made a noise of surprise because he cut his eyes in her direction as if to see who was guilty of distracting him from his obviously important conversation; but when they landed on her, as she stood motionless with shock, Snape's eyes stilled, his whole frame tense as he watched her with an intensity that was almost frightening. He went absolutely quiet. 

Suddenly, no one else in the room mattered to Hermione; Dumbledore, Pomfrey, Craig and even Harry faded away as her whole attention focused on Snape, on the fact that he was mere meters away from her, that he was breathing, that he lived despite all evidence to the contrary. In that first second, she'd been paralyzed, but then she was moving, hurtling herself toward at the precise moment he stepped toward her and they met somewhere in the middle of the room, Hermione flinging her arms around his neck and holding on as tightly as she could, unconcerned that there were tears running silently down her face, only aware of the fact that Snape was returning her desperate embrace, that his arms were wrapped around her waist, his face buried against neck, murmuring soft words she couldn't hear over the fast-paced beating of her own heart. 

What she felt in that moment eclipsed any of the relief she had felt at knowing that Harry was alive or that Voldemort had been defeated. There was such a sense of haven -- of _heaven_ -- of the organic rightness of his arms around her, of him being alive that Hermione wanted to laugh as well as cry, to hold on until she could absorb something of him into herself so that she could never miss him again. 

Snape pulled back a little from the embrace, just enough so that he could look into her eyes as he spoke, "Hermione...I thought you were -- in -- I thought you were _safe_." 

"I was," she told him, voice strangled with overemotion. "But I came, when I heard, _oh_..." She blinked, tears still sliding down her cheeks. Snape touched one hand to her wet face, gently wiping at the tears on her cheeks, his intensely dark eyes looking at her questionably. Hermione shook her head, fighting to explain. "I thought you were _dead_," she whispered and her bottom lip trembled, every ounce of anguish she'd felt since his last ominous letter pouring out in that one, feared word. 

It was Snape, this time, that reached for her, crushing her desperately to him for a brief moment. "No," he said softly, against her skin, his breath hot against her neck. "Not dead." 

Hermione raised a trembling hand to touch an ugly-looking cut flecked with dried blood which slashed its way across the sallow skin of his forehead. "No," she agreed. "You're right here." 

"Alive if not in perfect condition," Dumbledore warmly teased, his old face creased from the knowing smile which stretched his lips. The old wizard's interjection brought Hermione and Snape back to themselves and they pulled away guiltily, putting the proper amount of space between them, reminded reality and supposed propriety. Snape was still distinctly uncomfortable and Hermione shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot. "I'm sure he could use one or two of his own healing concoctions." 

"Albus," Snape began warningly, but the headmaster cut him off with a wave of his hand as he turned his twinkling eyes to Hermione. 

"Miss Granger," he said gently. "I didn't realize that you'd be here but I think it must be a stroke of good fortune. I had come for Madam Pomfrey's assistance but I daresay that you are most likely more of an expert in the matters at hand. As much as I detest having to draw you away from..." Dumbledore quickly glanced around the room, eyes touching on the sleeping Harry and the surprised Craig, "...hmmm...yes..._Harry's_ side, but I must beg use of your healing skills on a most important person." 

"Oh, yes. Of course," she nodded, hand patting the skirt pocket where she'd stuffed her wand. "Of course, I'll help." 

"Good," he nodded, placing a gnarled hand on her shoulder. "Come with me, then, Miss Granger. I'm afraid our patient isn't well enough to move at this particular moment." He drew Hermione toward the door and Snape swayed slightly as he wanted to follow them. "No, Severus," Dumbledore ordered him firmly. "You stay here and have the Madam look you over. You were hit by a very nasty curse. Madam Pomfrey!" 

Snape obeyed and moved no further as Dumbledore gave the mediwitch the strict instructions of examining Snape and making him rest. Before she was pulled from the infirmary, Hermione had one more glance of Snape's unfathomable black eyes watching her departure and she just caught the strange expression of curiosity with which Craig watched her watching Snape. 

When she and Dumbledore were alone in the corridor, he apologized again. "I am sorry," he said. "Not only am I sorry that I didn't allow you a proper moment with Severus," -- Hermione turned crimson but said nothing -- "but that I didn't communicate with you about Severus and his last mission. I had assumed...well, I had hoped that he had left you with some assurance of his success and, at the end, I was as uncertain of his state as you have been. Until yesterday, I feared that he had died as well." 

The headmaster patted her shoulder reassuringly and the guided her down the stairs, through the castle until they had reached one of the empty classrooms -- empty except for one figure laying prone and another kneeling beside it. The latter looked up at the sound of Hermione and Dumbledore's approach. 

"Hermione!" exclaimed Ginny in surprise. "What are you doing here?" 

"Everyone keeps asking me that," Hermione smiled tiredly. "Right now, I'm here to help." 

"Hermione?" The voice was hoarse, quiet with pain, but she instantly recognized it and knelt at his side, Ginny moving over to give her room. 

"Remus," she breathed in relief, smiling down into his sweaty, ashen face. It was obvious that he was in a great deal of pain, but -- he was alive. "How are you feeling?" 

"If you must know, terrible," he told her quietly. He waved toward a painful-looking wound in his side, the bloodied skin exposed by where his shirt had been torn away. "Poisoned dagger. Silver. I was on my way to see Pomfrey but I couldn't make it any farther. Thank heavens, Ginny found me." 

Hermione didn't like the way the skin was blackening around the wound, a sign of the silver working retroactively in Lupin's system. He recoiled from her hand as she touched the swollen area but he made no sound of protest at her expert exploration. 

"Miss Granger, do you believe that you may be able to help him?" Dumbledore, who had remained at the classroom's door, asked of her. 

She turned back to look at him as she answered. "I believe so. I should be able to help him enough that he can be moved, anyway." 

Dumbledore nodded. "If you do not require my presence, I admit that I have a great deal to do." 

"If Ginny doesn't mind helping me..." Ginny nodded her assent and Hermione waved the headmaster away. "We'll be fine, sir. Thank you." 

The old wizard nodded and quietly left the two young women to their silently suffering patient. Hermione returned her attention to Remus whose pallor was worsening at an alarming rate. "How long has it been since you received this?" 

"About -- an hour," he answered, breathing heavily as if it were becoming more difficult to do so. "I...can't be sure." 

The healer-in-training glanced at her red-haired friend. Ginny herself looked to be in much better shape than anyone Hermione had seen yet, though even she, too, looked worn and tired. "Ginny, I need you to go up to Pomfrey and tell her what's wrong. Have her send back down something to burn out the silver and a vial of that panacea potion that Snape makes. And the wound needs to be cleaned! Tell her that and she'll know what else to send." 

"Okay," she nodded, rising. "Good luck, Professor Lupin," she said to him as a farewell before scurrying from the room, robes and red hair streaming behind her. 

"Good luck, she says. As if I have any," Remus teased, earning himself a reproving look from his companion. 

Hermione made a disparaging noise. "This is no time for gallow's humor," she told him. Without hesitation, she ripped the shirt fabric more, until the whole of the swollen, blackened area around the wound was visible to her eyes and accessible to her fingers. It was too deep and delicate for Hermione to use a sterilizing charm on it as she had Malfoy's, and she didn't want to risk pushing any trace of silver deeper into the wound. The silver, she surmised, was just as dangerous to the werewolf as the poison and anything -- including the jostle of a stretcher -- could allow the silver contamination to spread. 

"So?" Lupin managed to ask lightly, watching the train of thought flicker across her face. He licked his dry lips and tried to keep himself from shivering. 

"You'll live," she assured him. "Maybe not painlessly, but you'll survive." 

"And here I was worried," he mumbled, closing his eyes. Hermione ran a gentle hand over his damp forehead, much as she had done with Harry hours earlier. 

"Once I get it cleaned, we can move you to the hospital wing," she said. "You'll be more comfortable there." 

Remus didn't seem to be listening to Hermione. He opened his eyes. "Have you seen Harry?" 

"Yes," she told him. "He's fine. Asleep, and resting -- but fine." 

"Good," he remarked, visibly relieved. "I saw Ron take him and I wasn't..." He shook his head, kind eyes searching Hermione's face. "Hermione...I'm sorry about -- about Severus. I don't know what..." 

"No, Snape's fine," Hermione told him, gripping the hand which lay near her. "I saw him myself, just before I came down to see you." 

"Really?" Lupin actually looked pleased at the news that Snape was alive. "We're weren't certain, you see, or else...when Ginny asked..." 

"I know, Remus." She squeezed his hand. "Now, you rest and stop talking. Ginny will be here soon and then everything will be alright." 

For once, Hermione didn't consider the platitude to be an empty one.  
  


-----

By the time Hermione and Ginny had tended Lupin and gotten him settled in the infirmary, it was early in the evening and Harry had awoken. The Boy-Who-Lived was plainly glad to see both she and Ginny, glad to be surrounded by old friends. There was still a sadness about him, Hermione noticed, but he seemed relaxed, as if the burden of the world's problems no longer weighed down on his narrow shoulders. After a while, she took the subtle hint that her friends wanted to be alone and she took her leave, stating loudly that she was retiring for the evening. Neither Ginny nor Harry paid her much attention as she departed and Hermione laughingly left the infirmary after checking with Madam Pomfrey about Remus's condition. Assured that she would not be needed in the hospital wing for the remainder of the evening, Hermione eschewed her original intent of sleep and headed down into the dungeons. 

She was pleased, though surprised, that Snape's wards still answered to her commands; Hermione had thought that he would have changed them after she'd left for the summer. However, she took advantage of his oversight and let herself in to his office -- where he wasn't -- and quietly stepped into his private laboratory. She wasn't surprised to find him there, skillfully managing a half-dozen bubbling cauldrons. 

So absorbed in his work, Snape didn't seem to notice her as she entered. Hermione took that moment of freedom to watch him engaged in the familiar, hypnotic movements of potions-making and allowed her heart to warm from the sight. He had obviously made use of the time since they'd parted because he was no longer dirty or ragged, but well-scrubbed and dressed plainly in a white shirt and dark trousers. His hair looked damp, not oily, and the cut on his forehead was no longer bleeding or raw. Medical attention, she surmised, as well as a bath. 

"I should have known that I'd find you here," she observed aloud, leaning lazily against the entrance with her arms crossed. He paused in mid-motion, head snapping up to look at her. She smiled at him. "Although, Madam Pomfrey is under the distinct impression that you're resting in your chambers." 

Snape glanced back to his workbench, arching an eyebrow at her statement even while he intently watched his hands' work. "And Madam Pomfrey is also in dire need of medicinal potions," he informed her. "As you should know, since you had quite a hand in their depletion." 

"All for a good cause," Hermione assured him. "And, I'll have you know, that Pomfrey had already run through a great deal of inventory before I arrived to help her." She moved to the closest workbench and leaned across it, also watching Snape's hands as he worked the knife with minute precision over a bunch of green herbs -- thyme, she decided from the smell. 

"Yes," Snape said absently, still focused on his task. "You never explained exactly how you came to be here when, at last I had heard, you were in Peru in mediwizardry training." 

His tone was as it always had been between them, just as Hermione's casual but shuttered movements were. Gone were those moments -- unguarded ones, propelled by overwhelming emotions -- that they'd experienced in the infirmary, both tightly contained again within the bounds of what they perceived as correct behavior. They had slipped easily back into the familiar and easy roles, abandoning the more difficult ones that might better reveal their true feelings. 

Hermione knew this to be true of herself but could only speculate for Snape; however, she accepted it and was glad to have it, if it were all she could have of him. "Well, I _was_ in Peru," she explained. "But when news that Hogwarts had been attacked reached me, I felt that I had to come back, so I procured a portkey and came here. Well, I ended up in Ireland but then Mr. Malley -- with the Aurors. You know him? -- well, I came up to Howarts with him." 

"I see," Snape returned, pausing in his work. He leaned against the workbench in a manner which mimicked hers and regarded her fixedly. "So you thought that your presence for demanded by current events -- one might think that you'd have thought the reverse more logical." 

He was teasing and she knew it. Hermione rolled her eyes. "I was in no danger," she said to the faint reproach in his sly comment. "By the time we arrived in Ireland, it was over anyway and I knew that Voldemort was dead." 

"We?" Snape echoed questioningly. 

"Craig and I, I mean. He came to Peru to fetch me back," she told him. 

Snape gave an abrupt but quickly aborted movement, as if he meant to react and thought better of it. "Ah, yes. Your Auror...friend." Suddenly, his cauldrons called for attention and he busied himself checking them. 

"I asked him to," Hermione elaborated. "To let me know as soon as something happened. Being an Auror, he was in a good position to do that." When Snape made no attempt to reply, she glanced down into one of the cauldrons closest to her. "Is this what I think it is?" 

Snape looked up from the cauldron he was stirring. "If you think it is a variation of de Lancy's burn salve, then yes." 

"I could have used this for Clarissa's leg this afternoon," Hermione mused, watching the white cream bubble. "She'll definitely want for it tomorrow. That leg of hers will be aching for weeks." 

"Many of us will," Snape informed her, one hand going to rub gingerly at the base of his spine. "It is one of the many legacies of Dark spells -- their effects tend to linger." 

"I know," Hermione admitted grimly. She nodded toward his back, remembering Dumbledore's words in the infirmary. "Is that where you took your...ah, nasty curse?" 

Snape removed his hand from his back, his face dark with restrained savagery. "Yes," he answered, the darkness in his voice. "...Someone that I had thought incapacitated hit me with some curse as I turned away. I didn't realize that it was otherwise until I felt it hit me. I'm not even certain what curse it was, actually." 

"Rather a coward's way, wasn't it?" Hermione observed dispassionately. 

Snape shrugged, an elegant motion even without his robes. "Some might simply say it was the most opportune way," he told her. 

"A Slytherin?" she asked, eyebrow raised. 

"A Slytherin might, yes," he acknowledged, measuring a powdered herb in the palm of his hand before tossing it into one of the cauldrons. 

"Yes, but still..." she half-argued, letting the rest of her sentence trail away. 

"Are you implying that all Slytherins are cowards, Miss Granger?" Snape asked, glancing at her before looking back to his cauldron. 

"I know better than _that_," Hermione retorted in her defense. 

"Then, at least I've managed to teach you something in our acquaintance," Snape told her approvingly. 

"Surely you realized that I've learned more than that from you," Hermione laughed, idly watching the cauldron of burn salve at her elbow as it frothed and swirled from the heat applied to it. 

"Sometimes, I wonder," Snape murmured under his breath. 

She laughed again, although she was quickly distracted by the cauldron she watched. She frowned, peering down at the white substance in concentration. "So, this is a derivative of the de Lancy burn salve, yes?" 

"Yes, Miss Granger, since it hasn't changed since last you asked me," Snape told her sardonically. 

She looked at him skeptically. "Then shouldn't you have added the pumpkin seed paste by now?" 

Snape gave her a look that said that he did not appreciate her telling him how to make potions, taking a few steps to look into the cauldron himself. "Of course not, I..." he trailed off before snarling, "Damn!" 

"Calm down," she told him soothingly, shrugging out of her blue robes and tossing them over an unused bench. "Now, budge up." 

Snape looked at her disbelievingly, as if she were speaking a different language -- one he didn't understand. "I beg your pardon?" 

Hermione pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt and rolled her eyes as she circled around the workbench until she was standing at his side. "I _said_ budge up so that I may help you -- starting with this cream. I can salvage it." 

He watched as the young woman elbowed her way into his space and began reaching across the tabletop for his marble mortar with its matching pestle and a glass jar of seeds. "I didn't realize that you'd gained a mastership in potions-making since last I saw you," Snape observed coolly, watching as she poured the seeds into the mortar. 

"I didn't," she admitted, using her wand to lower the heat under the burn salve before she grabbed the pestle. "However, I have become an adept at medicinal potions which is, after all, my specialty." She glanced at him slyly, waving the pestle for emphasis. "You'd be surprised how much one can learn studying under a _good_ potions teacher." 

His eyes gleamed with that light she remembered from her last year of classes as he looked down at her, an enigmatic expression on his face. "I'm not certain how I'm supposed to take that," he said, voice deep with humor. 

"Take it how you like," she told him briskly, finally placing the pestle in the mortar to grind the seeds, "as long as you get out of my way and add that thyme to that other cauldron before you ruin that batch, too." 

"Of course, Madam," he playfully conceded, shaking his head as he moved to do as she instructed. A few minutes later, he looked up from his latest task to watch as Hermione added the paste to the cauldron. "Troublesome creature," he muttered under his breath. Hermione simlpy grinned, keeping her focus on her task. 

Though they were both tired, aching and emotionally spent after the long day they had had, both Hermione and Snape were reticent to leave the laboratory or the warm presence of the other. So, the pair passed the half the night together, content with making potions and trading barbs as long as they had each other for company. 

----

_Author's Notes_: Well, now that pesky plot point that was Voldemort is out of my way! I hadn't forgot about it, really. Oh, and I hope y'all are satisified with the suffering heaped upon Lupin in this part. Pre-OotP, it was going to be Sirius who needed Hermione to discreetly heal him for obvious reasons but then well...you know. 

And pumpkin seed paste really is a folk remedy for burns. 

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to beta-goddess **Kel** who did the beta work on this part. Any problems still here are products of my own stupidity. 

If you are so inclined, leave a review.


	20. Dare my wild heart

**Heart over mind : Part XX  
Dare my wild heart**

* * *

For the second time in two decades, the wizarding world suspended its usual business in order to celebrate Lord Voldemort's demise at the hands of Harry Potter. Shops were opened, of course, but only in order to facilitate gossip and good cheer, while the streets were filled to overflowing and the skies hung heavy with owls and unscheduled meteor showers. It was only those poor souls who worked for the pertinent offices of the Ministry of Magic who were expected to resist such merriment and actually perform their duties, those being the onerous tasks of dealing with the legal and political consequences of the Dark Lord's death.

Even Hogwarts - or perhaps, especially - was loud with celebration, even at the obscenely early hours at which Severus Snape awoke with clockwork precision. And even after months of living on nothing but his wits and nerves, and a late night at making potions with Hermione, his body refused to let him sleep much past dawn and he made no try at resisting such ingrained behavior. Instead, he arose and performed his perfunctory ablutions, dressed and headed for his lab, unable to kindle any more celebratory emotion than profound relief.

It was over - again.

He was free - again.

Waiting for him just as he had left them were the labors of his late-night work: carefully stacked and labeled vials of medicinal potions, all neatly packed in the rickety wooden crates he used to transport them up to the infirmary from his private workspace. Snape remembered that he'd almost left the task until the morning because only by stopping to work himself would Hermione retire as well, though she'd been dead on her feet for the last two hours of their time together - so tired and sleepy, in fact, he doubted that she would be able to recall exactly how she got from his laboratory to the guest chamber that had been secured for her once she awoke this morning.

As he quickly inspected the crates before attempting the delicate task of carrying them up to Madam Pomfrey, he noticed that his original observation had been incorrect. There was one bottle of potion which was not in the crates with the others; instead, it sat beside its brethren, a small scrap of parchment propped against it. He snatched up the parchment and furrowed his brow as he read its short lines:

_This is that potion that I made for Remus while you were droning on about your aconite supply - a complaint that I don't much care about or believe, by the way, since I happen to know that Professor Dumbledore purchases most of it. Anyway, make certain when you take the medicines to the hospital wing that Remus takes this potion as soon as possible. Otherwise, the silver damage will take an eternity to heal, something that will cause him a great deal of trouble with the next full moon less than a fortnight away._

He snorted, as much amused as exasperated, when he saw the hastily scrawled "HG" that closed the note. An unnecessary piece of information, he decided, when it was obvious that the note could have come from no one but the meddlesome creature who'd kept him awake half the night while she wasted his precious materials on innovative potions made to speed healing in werewolves. He shook his head as he pocketed the parchment and tucked the stray bottle - marked in the note-writer's crisp writing as "FOR REMUS LUPIN" - into the padded nestle of one of the crates.

Despite the unnatural amount of noise rumbling through the castle's halls, Snape met few on his trip through the winding corridors marking the distance between the dungeons and the infirmary. As he passed the Great Hall, where much of the commotion was centered, he exchanged curt nods of recognition with some harried Ministry workers and - to his perplexed amusement - a testy glance from the tall, young Irishman who he knew to be a _friend_ of Hermione's. He returned the glare with practiced ease, having found no reason in their brief acquaintance to grant the boy anything outside of it. The noise dimmed as he climbed higher, a fact that he attributed to the meters of stone and mortar which separated him from the common rooms where the children were probably still cavorting. He spared a moment to be relieved that the damage to the student population had been so minor as that they _could_ celebrate.

Snape also acknowledged a vague sort of guilt about not yer having visited the Slytherins who, while technically under Sinistra's care, he thought of as his own. But, he knew that it would not be a pleasant task and he was selfish enough to want to postpone that inevitable hardship for as long as possible.

The truth of the matter was that those few emotions - guilt, relief - were about the only ones Snape had the energy to feel at that moment in time. The last few months of his service to the Order had drained him in ways it hadn't since the first war. Anything other than those few, almost instinctive feelings involved more effort than he was willing to expend. Except...

Except...

Except he had been more than simply relieved to see Hermione.

Oh, Snape admitted that he'd been that - relieved, after seeing so much death in those brutal hours, that she stood before him healthy and alive - but he also had been struck a sudden, posthumous terror at the sight of Hermione in the Hogwarts infirmary. Through all that had happened just in the hours surrounding the last desperate campaign against Voldemort, there had been a part of him put at ease, knowing that _she_ was safe from it all, outside of the country where she could not be a target or casualty. That fact had been a...comfort to him in those fretful, intermittent moments that he'd been able to spare for deeper contemplation in face of his last mission for Dumbledore, to know that she was protected - not only from harm but from those things she had written that she had never wanted to be forced to do.

As uncomfortable as it made him to acknowledge it, Snape knew that he had spent a great deal of his time thinking of Hermione since she'd left him near the summer's end. It had been a failing that had become most especially bothersome when idea of his death had occurred to him less as a vague possibility and more as a distinct probability. While Snape had often faced death, there were very few times when he'd actually believed that he was going to die. He was lucky to have only suffered from those kinds of self-aware moments of one's own utter mortality a handful of times in his life but never would he forget them. Those moments - rare, leaden - had a way of bringing clarity to the most inscrutable of problems, making that which had seemed dense and opaque, crystalline - clear and sharp and, sometimes, as icy and painful as glass. Those were the moments that could make a young man realize that he was fighting for the wrong side in the battle between Light and Dark...it was also the kind of moment that could make an old man realize that perhaps what he felt was more than simple affection, or even attraction but...

The infirmary, Snape noticed as he stepped into the wing, was still and quiet, the morning light sparkling along the cut panes of the infirmary's windows, filling the high-ceilinged room with a soft, golden glow. There were only a handful of beds still filled and most of the patients were hidden from the casual visitor behind curtain and screens. Despite that precaution, Snape still knew exactly where the famous Harry Potter lay recuperating in one back corner - behind the same curtains from which Pomfrey choose that moment to emerge. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Snape with his arms laden with potions and he nodded almost cordially to her as she gestured for him to follow her toward the high cabinets where she kept her supplies.

"Thank you, Severus," she told him quietly as she began to transfer the new supply of potions from the crates to her cabinets. "I can't believe that you managed all this overnight."

"I had help," he explained shortly, watching as Pomfrey's work lightened the weight of the crates he held. When she emptied the first, he tugged it away so that she could repeat the process on the second batch.

The mediwitch's mouth twitched as if she wanted to smile. "I know; Hermione stopped by about just before you did," she told him. There was only one potion left that had not been placed onto the shelf - a bottle precisely labeled "FOR REMUS LUPIN." "She wanted to tell me about this."

"Yes," he said coolly. "Miss Granger was very preoccupied about that particular potion of hers."

Pomfrey pressed the cold glass of the bottle into Snape's hand. "Why don't you give this to him for me, while I sort out the rest?"

His fingers curled around the bottle as he grudgingly accepted the task. "Where is he, anyway?" He spoke as if he referred to some kind of lower life-form and not the valued ally which Lupin had been in the fight against Voldemort.

A wheezy chuckle sounded from behind the closest curtained bed, followed by a quietly-pitched hoarse voice. "I'm over here, Severus...and may I say what a pleasure it is to hear you so early in the morning."

Pomfrey took a second to gesture toward the bed with her eyes before primly turning away from Snape, busily sorting through potions and murmuring to herself about which patient would need which potion and when.

Snape sighed the sigh of the long-suffering and pushed open the curtains around the bed to see Lupin sitting quietly with a book propped open on his blanket-covered lap. Despite the fact that his skin was as white and bleached-looking as the hospital linens and his sunken eyes were darkly ringed, he looked as calm and serene as he ever had. Even on the edge of death, he still managed to be kind and pleasant, as if all the hardships he'd endured left no mark on his psyche. Of all things about Lupin that Snape hated, he found his obstinate goodwill to be the most offending.

"Lupin," Snape grumbled in greeting, glaring down at the sick man's cheerful face.

"Severus," he replied in kind, closing his book and placing it on the bedside table.

"I was told you'd be in need of this," Snape said with no preamble as he thrust the potion at Lupin who took it with shaking hands.

"Yes, thank you," he murmured, holding the bottle up so that he could examine the potion's thick, dark color. "You were told by Hermione, no doubt."

"No doubt."

Lupin managed a weakly mischievous smile as he reached for the goblet of water on his bedside table, sipping at it before speaking again. "She was very glad to see you alive yesterday," he remarked, almost conversationally.

Snape ignored the opening and instead tersely explained, "You're to take that..."

"Immediately. Yes, I know," Lupin nodded, holding the bottle up so that he could again examine the potion's thick, dark color. "Hermione stopped by to visit before she left this morning." When Snape made no move to leave his side, Lupin looked up inquiringly. "Yes, Severus?"

"The potion, Lupin. If you know that it is to be taken immediately, perhaps you'd like to _get on with it_?"

"I didn't know you cared," the werewolf teased, faintly amused.

Snape snorted, glowering. "I don't care if you live or die - take the potion as you please, Lupin. Good day." Without another word, he stalked away from his sickly man, not pausing even to redraw the curtains around his bed as he headed for the infirmary's exit.

Lupin's voice floated back toward him, quiet but clear. "Thank you again, Severus."

Snape made no attempt at an answer or even an acknowledgement of the man's last statement; his mind was already busy with the tasks ahead of him for the day, a list of dozens of necessary obligations he'd need to fulfill...all of which were underscored by quiet, tumbling thoughts about life-changing moments.

* * *

Of all the places Hermione might have visited on the day after Voldemort's defeat, she decided that the most important place of all was her own home. She had known how much her parents had worried about her because of the threat of the Dark Lord and, unlike all her wizard friends, her parents, being so thoroughly Muggle, would have no way to know that their daughter's life was no longer in danger. Before the sun had arisen much in the eastern sky, Hermione trotted down the path toward Hogsmeade until she was clear of Hogwarts's anti-Apparition ward and - literally - popped in to visit her parents.

Carolina, who had been sitting in her kitchen while she enjoyed her first cup of black coffee, had given a rather indignant squawk of surprise at her daughter's precipitous arrival, but she'd gamely recovered and asked Hermione a dozen questions before the young witch had been able to answer the first of them. As Hermione had suspected, the visit had lasted most of the morning with her mother exacting every detail she could from her before allowing her to leave again - and that had been only after a bone-crunching embrace and a celebratory gift to be shared with "all those lovely friends of yours" back at Hogwarts.

An hour later, back within the castle walls and heading resolutely toward the infirmary with the gift tucked back in her room - she had plans of her own for it - Hermione was still smiling at the memory of her mother's cautiously joyous face at the news, an expression as relieved and ecstatic as any witch or wizard she had seen upon receiving the same information. It hadn't been until that moment that she'd realized that her parents' lives were as ruled by fear of Voldemort as any wizard parent whose children faced the same danger. And though it never affected their daily lives, the threat to Hermione had made it as much of their war as anyone's.

Sometimes Hermione loved her parents more than life itself.

The hospital wing, Hermione learned upon entering it, was the quietest place left in the castle, although it too was filled with the buzz of excited chatter. The grin which had been playing at her lips widened into a full smile at the sight which greeted her: Lupin, still pale but animated as he spoke with Pomfrey in low tones; Clarissa, bandaged leg propped up on pillows as she flipped through a book, her face clear from the pinching pain it had revealed the day before; and, most wonderful of all, Harry sitting up with Ginny and Ron perched on either side of his bed, all three grinning as they shared the sweets from one of the get-well-soon baskets that had already made their way to his bedside.

_This_ was the true measure of her happiness; this sight, so ordinary and unimportant but so..._so_ right. For a moment, Hermione was content only to watch her three friends as they laughed and talked, satisfied simply with seeing them alive and well.

She hovered by the entrance watching until Ron caught a sight of her out of the corner of his eye. He turned to fully face her and grinned, motioning for her to join them. "C'mon, Hermione," he coaxed. "Don't just stand there all day - get over here or leave us in peace." His tone was warm and bright, much like his eyes.

Hermione rolled her eyes in response, falling into step with the teasing routine they had made theirs. "Very well, but only because you asked so nicely," she replied, faintly sarcastic.

Ron's grin widened. "Did I ask?"

"...and I've so wanted to see _Harry_ and _Ginny_," she added blithely as she claimed a spot on the bed near Harry's feet, half-sitting on Ron's long legs to make herself comfortable. She nudged him playfully with her elbow. "Others here, I'm not so sure about."

Harry who had seemed the most quiet of them, gave her a devilish grin. "Yes, Hermione, I understand. I've wanted nothing else but some nice quality time with you and Ginny..."

"You love me," Ron protested laughingly, an arm over Hermione's shoulder. "Both of you."

Ginny joined in, laughing. "Unfortunately, yes, we all do."

It was such a rare treat for the four of them to sit and talk and be no more serious than one of Ron's endearingly bad jokes - and Hermione relished it like nothing else. Although she had had plans to offer help to anyone who might need it in the castle, the visit which she had only envisioned as lasting a few minutes stretched into a hour and more, even Pomfrey too indulgent of the wizarding world's hero to run off his company. Harry, his friends noticed, still looked a bit lost when his attention wasn't fully engaged, like there was a sadness in him that was fighting to hold onto his mood but they also noticed that he was making an effort to ignore that sadness and they were willing to help, if only for a little while.

"Dumbledore's canceling classes for the next fortnight," Ginny informed them all around a mouthful of ice mice. "And he's not even certain if the school will be running after that. Some parents are already demanding that their children be sent home."

Ron threw her a skeptical look. "And how do you know all this? I didn't realize that the headmaster confided in you."

Ginny wrinkled her nose at him as she reached across Harry's legs to snatch a chocolate frog out of her brother's hand. "I ran into Mum on my way here and she told me, if you must know."

"Well, it makes sense," Hermione cut it, giving them both a reproving frown. "With the Ministry hanging about and all the damage, a fortnight _is_ an optimistic estimate."

"I don't even understand why the Ministry is still here," grumbled Harry, clearly still unsettled from the "interview" that one of the officials had tried to have with him earlier in the day - before Pomfrey ran him out with her protests ringing in his ears. "They aren't accomplishing anything. Instead of wasting time bothering Professor Dumbledore, they ought to rounding up the Death Eaters that escaped."

"I hope we aren't in for a repeat of what happened last time," Hermione added. "I'd like to think that we've learned something since then about the way this needs to be handled." "Oh, _we_ have," Ginny said archly. "I just wonder about those idiots in the Ministry - Dad, excluded, of course."

"Of course," Hermione hurriedly agreed as she gestured for Ron to hand over a handful of jelly beans.

"Yeah," Harry added, suddenly quiet and thoughtful. "Just because Voldemort is dead...it's not over."

Hermione fiddled with the edge of the blanket that covered Harry's legs while Ginny watched him with soulful, somber eyes.

Ron, determined to plow through the suddenly awkward silence, cleared his throat loudly. "You're right, mate. Even before we've got to worry about the trials, there'll be the...funerals."

As Ginny's face crumbled from solemnity to sadness, Hermione lowered her eyes, watching as she traced a random pattern on the blanket with the tip of her finger. She knew that Ron and Harry had lost fellow Aurors-in-training and that the Weasleys had had cousins to fall in the last few months. She couldn't help but feel both horribly guilty and horribly, selfishly glad: glad that no one she truly cared about had died and guilty that she could feel so selfish in the face of her friends' losses.

As if he could read her mind, Ron reached over and clumsily grabbed her hand in his, clutching as he mumbled, "'M glad that we're all still, you know, here. Together."

She tightened her fingers around his and laid her other hand against Harry's covered leg. "Me, too. I'm so thankful that no one...that everyone who means so much to me...that everyone _survived._." A slight shudder rippled across her shoulders as she recalled the painful ache that had dogged her because of her worry for Snape, as well as the indescribable fear that had strangled her when Craig had told her about Harry. Suddenly, the guilt didn't matter nearly so much as the happiness did, in the face of having her friends all around her and knowing that Snape was safe somewhere in the castle.

"Yes," Ginny agreed, completing the hesitant circle by taking Harry's hand with her right and covering Hermione's with her left. She locked eyes with her friend, brown eyes speaking volumes as she echoed, "_Everyone_."

Eventually, despite her elevated mood, Pomfrey shooed Hermione, as well as Ron and Ginny, out of the infirmary, dosing Harry with something to make him sleep as his friends waved him good-bye. Ginny and Ron both went in search of their mother while Hermione went in search of something constructive to do, actively forcing herself not to search out Snape. Now that she knew he was safe and relatively unharmed, she decided that her near-compulsive need to be in his presence was something she needed to curb before she thoroughly embarrassed herself.

The young witch was on her way to McGonagall's office when she noticed a very familiar face lingering in one of the halls, nodding thoughtfully as one of the paintings - a Rubenesque woman with a cherubic but crying baby - spoke rapidly to him.

"Craig!" she called out in greeting, interrupting the prattling painting as the Auror turned to acknowledge her.

"Hermione," he returned, his tone much more subdued than it had ever been in her presence before. She was puzzled, accustomed to the exuberance he usually displayed toward her.

She reached his side and nodded toward the woman in the painting who was currently trying to shush her infant. "What are you doing?"

He grimaced as he tucked his quill absently behind his ear. "Oh, this. Well, Mr. O'Malley wanted someone to talk to some of the paintings to see if they had any useful information...so far, the answer t' that is naught."

The Flemish woman gave him a dark look over her shoulder before she began to croon to her sniffling baby. Craig rolled his eyes and tugged on Hermione's arm to draw her away from the portrait. "It's been like that all day," he muttered, stuffing a crumpled piece of parchment in his robes. "Bloody portraits."

"Been at it all day?" she asked sympathetically.

"Aye," he told her, glancing warily at her out of the corner of his eye. Hermione noticed that he seemed to have some difficultly looking directly at her; currently, his gaze was focused over her head.

"Is...something wrong, Craig?" she finally inquired, also noting his uncomfortable body language.

"O' course not," he assured her with little conviction. Hermione folded her arms across her chest, watching as he shifted guiltily from foot to foot, his face puckered in a frown.

She raised an eyebrow. "Somehow, I find that difficult to believe."

"It's nothing," he assured her again, giving her a wan smile. "Just a bit knackered from all that's happened, I promise."

"Of course," she accepted dubiously.

"You worry too much, old girl," he teased, running his hands down her arms in a familiar gesture of affection. The frown eased and his smile grew to a facsimile of its usual brightness. "C'mon, walk me to the Great Hall. I get lost here everytime." She agreed.

Despite Craig's assurances, Hermione could not rid herself of the idea that Craig was uncomfortable around her for reasons she could not fathom. She had just seen him the previous afternoon and nothing had been amiss. And, for her part, Hermione could think of nothing that had transpired in the meantime that would make him act in such a way toward her. As much as she'd have liked to blame it on stress or fatigue, her instinct told her it was something else entirely.

Hermione had almost convinced herself to ignore her doubts when Craig abruptly stopped moving, reaching out to grab her arm to bring her to a halt. She glanced at him questioningly as he used his grip on her arm to pull her closer to him. She didn't repeat her earlier inquiry to him but it was plain to read in her eyes.

"Hermione," he began, brow furrowed and face tight. "D'ye remember when I asked ye, in the spring, if ye had...if there was someone waiting fer ya?"

"Yes, of course, I remember," she told him patiently. "What does that have to do with..."

"It's your old professor, ain't it?" Craig quickly continued, his voice drowning out her exclamation. "That old git who wrote you all the letters. Snape, right?"

"Craig..." she faintly protested, color draining from her face. Hermione had never figured on having to live through one of these conversations after she'd told Ginny and never had she expected it to happen in the middle of Hogwarts castle with half of the Ministry of Magic likely to stumble over them.

"Just answer the question, Hermione," he urged her, his expression dark and pained. "Although I'm all but certain of the answer." Craig paused and fixed his gaze unwaveringly on her face. "I was there, remember? In the infirmary, when you found out he was alive."

"Craig..."

"The truth, Hermione. That's all I'm askin' ya for."

"Yes," she answered softly in a hurried puff of breath.

Craig eased his hold on her arm. "Aye, I thought so. I should have guessed, I think. You were ne'er happier than when ye got an owl from him."

She glanced away from the wounded expression in his face. "You said then that it didn't matter, Craig. Why does it matter now?"

He snorted, releasing her in order to cross his arms. "Because I think it's daft for ya to be wastin' your time on him, Hermione. I mean, I dunno know him, not much at all, but what I've seen of him isn't very pleasant. And...he _was_ your professor, girl. Ain't that against some kind of rules, here?"

Hermione angrily stepped away from him. "It's not as if I were having some torrid affair with him while I was still a student! What I told you this spring is true now - he doesn't feel anything for me. We've become friends of a sort, but that's all - so this entire conversation is not only highly insulting but unnecessary!"

"Hermione..."

"No!" Hermione jerked away before Craig could lay a soothing hand on her. She straightened her shoulders and tossed her head haughtily, pausing to gather her dignity about her. Her voice was low and barely controlled. "I don't want to hear this, Craig. I didn't ask for your opinion on the subject and I certainly don't want to hear any more of it. Now, if you'll excuse me...I'm sure you can find your own bloody way from here!"

With another defiant toss of her hair, Hermione walked away from Craig, only her innate need to remain dignified restraining her from storming down the halls in a fair imitation of Snape. Her hands were trembling and her anger - though justified she felt - was more explosive than she'd expected on the subject. All she knew was that she needed to escape, at least for a little while, and calm herself down.

"I think ye're wrong, y'know!" Craig hollered at her back, making her cringe at the possibility of what he might say as a Ministry official passed her on his way down the hall. "I think he does care, more than he bloody well should!"

* * *

Like most of her generation, Molly Weasley had already lived through the aftermath of Lord Voldemort's defeat once by the time she gathered with friends and family to celebrate the second. On that first Halloween night, she'd been locked away tight with her children and husband in their home, unaware that somewhere else, in some other home, a family was being torn apart for the price of peace. And, in the days of near-hysteric joy that had followed, Molly had not let that euphoria of sudden, tangy freedom taunt her into her shirking her duties: motherly duties, wifely duties and even Order duties had not ceased simply because Voldermort was gone.

Almost two decades later, she could say the same: evil had not died along with the Dark Lord and there were still things to be done. But, in those twenty-odd years since, Molly had gotten older and, she hoped, a little wiser. Wise enough, she decided, to know that when Albus Dumbledore opened the doors of Hogwart's Great Hall to students - former and current alike - in order to celebrate the occasion, one did not refuse, especially when all seemed as right with the world as it could be since her children were safe, Harry was alive, and the Dark was finally giving way to the Light.

The "celebration" was something informal and lazy, more an outlet for overflowing energy than anything based on actual ceremony. After two days of being cornered in their common rooms or corralled in the undamaged parts of the school, the students were finally allowed to out of their dorms and into the Great Hall, where the bounty lay as lavish as any Hogwarts holiday to date. Mixed among them were a relatively small handful of adults, some professors, some Aurors, some vaguely known to be part of Dumbledore's not-quite-secret cabinet of allies, and some simply having no where else to be at such a time except Hogwarts.

The atmosphere was bright and buoyant, the collective happiness - fueled by hope and relief - too much to be contained and so Dumbledore allowed it to spill throughout the castle, every light lit and every face as bright as if it were Candlemas night.

Standing with the old wizard herself, Molly could see that the celebration was as good for him as for the children. He looked more at peace than she'd seen him in years and there was an odd difference about him that spoke of a new inner spark. The matron wondered if anyone else saw it on the old man's face and, sneaking a glance over at her daughter as she spoke with her former headmaster, she thought that Ginny, too, might have noticed the brighter twinkle in the Dumbledore's eye.

"...unfortunately, Madam Pomfrey eventually ran us off," Ginny was explaining to Dumbledore when Molly came around from her motherly musings. "Ron and I went to look for Mum and Hermione decided to go see Professor McGonagall and..."

"Speaking of Hermione," Molly cut in, frowning ever so slightly as she glanced around the room, looking for the familiar form of the girl. "I haven't seen her much since she's been here. And I haven't seen her at all tonight." She paused to take a sip of her strong, warm cider. "I do hope she's well."

Ginny giggled at her Molly's question, her own sparkling cider in a fluted goblet that looked much more festive than her mother's practical mug. "Oh, I promise she's fine," she said, as bright as the atmosphere and as bubbly as the cider. "She did have a bit of a fright - terrible one, actually - but it ended right for her and all's well."

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore murmured, smiling at Ginny conspiratorially as she sipped at her beverage. "I think that instances such as that, as terrible as they are, sometimes act as catalysts. This is a time for second chances and - I only hope - such a rare thing is not wasted by those that are still young enough to enjoy them."

Ginny grinned knowingly at the old wizard. "I agree, Professor."

Molly gave them both an inquiring look but her daughter only looked amused and her mentor slyly innocent behind his long, white beard. She looked over the crowd again, suddenly thinking that a talk with Hermione might prove very beneficial. On her third examination of the Great Hall, she still had not spotted Hermione - but she had spotted someone who seemed so uncomfortable and out of place that his appearance was more shocking than she'd cared to admit.

"Look, even Severus is here," she noted to Dumbledore, waving a plump hand in the other wizard's direction. "I never would have thought it of him."

"Where?" Ginny wanted to know, peering around to see where her mother had pointed. Molly was surprised again, this time by her daughter's sudden, uncharacteristic interest in her hated old Potions professor.

"Ah, so it is," Dumbledore chuckled, beaming as he nodded toward the hall's entrance where an obviously displeased Snape stood, glaring across the room as if he hated the mere idea of celebration. "And looking so festive as well."

Both Molly and Ginny glanced at Dumbledore to see if he had well and truly lost his mind but he ignored them, raising a wrinkly hand to signal for Snape. The younger man noticed the gesture, nodded tightly and made a beeline for the small trio, his face set firmly in harsh, unhappy lines.

"Headmaster, Mrs. Weasley, Miss Weasley," Snape said in greeting when he reached them.

Molly's "Hello, Severus" and Ginny's "Good evening, Professor" tangled together as Dumbledore smiled at the other wizard. "So nice of you to join us this evening, Severus."

Snape, spine rigid, favored the headmaster with a raised eyebrow. "I have no plans of joining you, Headmaster. I have other...obligations for this evening."

Molly thought Ginny might have giggled but a dark look from the Potions professor ended any such noise before it could properly reach her mother's ears.

"Ah, but here you are," Dumbledore gently disagreed.

Snape crossed his arms over his chest. "Only because I found a note from you, asking me to meet you as soon as possible."

Dumbledore's eyes widened as if this news surprised him. "Did you now?" At Snape's nod of confirmation, the old wizard looked pensive. "I think old age is finally catching me," he told them sadly. "For, alas, I cannot remembering sending that note or what it was about. A mistake, no doubt."

"No doubt," Snape answered dryly and Molly had to fight to cover her amusement.

"Well, since you're already here..." Dumbledore's amused voice trailed off as he clapped his hands and produced a fluted glass of sparkling cider. He offered it to Snape. "You may as well remain and enjoy yourself."

Snape grudgingly took the proffered glass. "As much I would..._enjoy_...doing so, I cannot. As I said my presence is required elsewhere."

"Oh?"

The younger wizard looked resigned. "Yes, there are still several more complicated remedies that Madam Pomfrey needs to have brewed and I had promised her that she would have them by morning. In fact..." Snape, for the first time that evening, glanced around the Great Hall without his customary predatory look. "...I had hoped to ask Miss Granger for her assistance, but I do not see her tonight."

"Perhaps she's in the infirmary, visiting Harry or Remus," Molly suggested, recalling that Pomfrey often allowed Hermione to pay visits after hours, ostensibly because of her mediwizardry training.

"I have already thought to check with Madam Pomfrey," Snape told her. "She has not been there since this afternoon. With neither Pot - with neither Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley in attendance, I had expected to find her with you or your daughter."

"I haven't seen her neither," Molly admitted. "I was beginning to wonder about her myself. I do hope that she's not working herself too hard. Ginny told me that Hermione had been helping wherever she could."

"I assure you, Molly, that Miss Granger is at her happiest when she's making herself a nuisance," Snape explained, tone still dry.

"Severus," Dumbledore chided.

He gave the headmaster a knowing look. "Now, if you will excuse me..."

"Um...Professor?"

Snape stopped mid-turn and acknowledged Ginny with a lifted eyebrow. "Yes, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny took a moment to answer, as if it took all her courage to speak directly to her old professor without provocation. "There's a little open courtyard, near the old Muggle Studies classroom that Hermione likes to visit..."

Snape nodded, almost thoughtfully. "Yes, I know well of her predilection, Miss Weasley. Thank you. I had not thought of it." With another nod of goodbye directed toward the group, he swept out, being given a wide berth by the students he passed on his way.

When Molly glanced back at Dumbledore, she noticed that he was smiling almost smugly as he drummed his fingers absently against a taffeta-stiff fold of his robes. "I do hope that this means that they've finally worked through their problems," he announced. "It has been so awkward since Midsummer, after all."

Molly was confused. "Midsummer?"

The old wizard nodded. "Yes, Midsummer. They went to the festival together, you know, and -"

"WHAT?" Though her surprise was vocal, Molly would not exactly have considered it shouting - much.

Dumbledore's eyes were too bright and too blue against the blandness of his cheerful voice. "Yes. Didn't you see them there?"

"We didn't go..." Molly began, her voice falling away as the headmaster spoke up again.

"Ah, well, that's understandable," he murmured. "But Hagrid saw them together, and Rosmerta. Remus, I think, ran into them on their way back to the castle the next morning and he told me that -"

For a moment, Molly considered checking her mug to make certain that she was not imbibing something stronger than cider. "Severus? Hermione?" She couldn't keep the disbelief out of her tone, her mind reeling with the implications of Dumbledore's cheery statement. _Surely, not Hermione and Severus...?_

Mrs. Weasely jumped at the gentle touch her daughter laid on her arm. "That was exactly my reaction, Mum," she admitted, still patting her mother's arm. "Except, you know, with more feeling. And volume."

* * *

The night was cool and clear but the warmth from the wine she drank kept Hermione from minding the nippiness of the air against her cheeks as she sat in the still emptiness of "her" courtyard. It was the same stone bench, the same view of the sky, now darkened and specked with stars, peeking around the high juts of the castle's architecture, the same gothic fountain whose running water provided the only background noise to the scene. She breathed deeply - one crisp, tingling breath - and released it slowly, savoring the moment of quiet peace. 

It had taken her most of the evening to calm down after her altercation with Craig, the anger that he had unexpectedly ignited in her having to burn itself away. Even now, after having spent hours thinking on it, Hermione was confused by the way she'd lost her temper. Surely, what Craig said hadn't been all that defamatory? There had been concern in his words, beneath his own confusion, and - in some of her more troublesome fantasies - Hermione had imagined Harry or Ron flinging much worse words at her if they ever discovered the truth about where her affections lay. She had always thought of herself as a basically sensible person, but her reaction, so violently incensed, had been extremely insensible, or so she thought. Anger was a valid emotion but she couldn't help but feel that, by and large, she'd...overreacted.

In the interests of her own insanity, Hermione had decided to blame the outburst on stress and the see-saw dip-and-sway of emotions she had faced in the past few days. Her worries over Snape, her worry for Harry, coupled with the sudden fear of Voldemort's attack and the subsequent rush that followed in the wake of his defeat had left her emotionally drained, she reasoned. Her nerves were raw and exposed and Craig had been the unfortunate victim of coincidence and circumstance.

But even after coming to that logical conclusion, Hermione had had no desire for company. Instead of joining the Hogwarts population in their celebration, she had grabbed her mother's gift, a glass and her bright blue robes before leaving her chamber with the express purpose of sitting in the cool, dark quiet of the secluded courtyard and taking the time to absorb the events of the last few days.

_Voldemort is dead. Harry is safe. It's over. Snape is not dead. Ron survived. Remus will recover..._ All those disjointed sentences were almost too good to believe and Hermione had realized that she hadn't taken the time to truly accept it all. The barriers she had placed around herself - and the same was true for her friends, she knew - because of the looming threat of Voldemort were gone. There were no more boundaries for the sake of "safe" and "cause" - the future was a wide open field, and undecided issues begged for resolution...

Feeling chilled, Hermione took another sip from her wine glass, relishing the sweetness of the vino santo on her tongue. It had been her mother's gift, the bottle of her grandparents' wine; it was one of the best years ever produced and Carolina had been saving it for a special occasion for over two decades. Hermione had been touched that this event had earned the cherished bottle. The only drawback to spending her evening alone was that there was no one with whom to share the wine and she could easily - _too easily_ - think of someone she wanted to taste it with her. He was, after all, one of those pesky undecided issues begging for her attention.

"Miss Granger."

As if summoned there by her thoughts, Hermione turned quickly to see Snape's form melt out of the shadows of the darkened castle corridors, his face and hands lit ghostly pale by the light of the waxing moon. She watched as he crossed the manicured courtyard toward her, barely aware that she topped her glass before sitting the bottle of wine beside her on the stone bench as her eyes followed his precise movements.

When he reached her side, Snape awarded her with one of the dark, teasing looks that she'd come to enjoy over the summer. "I would have expected you to be more...festive...this evening."

She lifted her wine glass slightly with one hand and pulled her robes closer with the other. "I'm festive - enough," she softly disagreed.

"So I see," he nodded, his honeyed voice heavy with sarcasm. "Sitting by yourself, in the dark, whilst everyone else is partaking of the...atmosphere...in the Great Hall. _Festive_, indeed."

Hermione smiled at his comment, deciding that sarcasm was a two-way mode of communication. "And I see that you are so very eager to partake of said atmosphere."

The corners of Snape's lips threatened to lift into something vaguely resembling a grin. "Touché. However, I am somewhat known for my inability to stomach such moronic spectacle. You, on the other hand, are not."

She sighed, tugging at the robes as if she were cold. "It's been...a long few days," she explained solemnly. "I just - needed the quiet, I suppose."

Something in Snape's expression closed and his spine stiffened. "Then I am sorry to have disturbed you. I will leave you."

"That's not necessarily, really," Hermione hastened to say, lifting her empty hand in a panicked staying motion. "If you'd like to stay...I was just thinking that there _was_ some disadvantage to solitude."

"Such as?"

"Such as there was no one to share this bottle of wine with me," Hermione said, touching the cool glass of the bottle invitingly with the tips of her fingers. "It would be a shame for it to go to waste and I know that I can't finish it alone."

The invitation in her voice was clear and Snape made no show of ignoring it. "Well...it would have to be more palatable than the swill the headmaster is offering..." He raised his still-full fluted glass, the one he'd received from Dumbledore in the Great Hall.

"It's a very good bottle," Hermione cajoled, her voice teasing. "It's even better than the one I gave you for Christmas."

Snape looked amused by her persuasion but he answered her with a humor-touched tone of his own. "I suppose I would be amiable to sharing a glass with you, if for no reason other than to save it from waste."

She laughed - a soft, breathless sound - as she watched him unceremoniously pour out the cider Dumbledore had given him. "Yes, I can see how much you dislike waste."

"Things of quality should not be wasted," he clarified, nodding expectedly toward the bottle at Hermione's side. She easily filled his glass and added to her own.

"So you admit that the wine is good?" She questioned archly, setting the bottle carefully near her feet.

Snape sampled the wine from his glass before lowering himself to sit at her side, so close on the stone bench that the his heavy robes brushed against her stocking-clad legs and Hermione could almost believe that she could feel the heat of his body through the layers of her clothes. His nearness was so distracting that she had to concentrate to comprehend his answer. "Miss Granger, you and I both know that the wine was excellent. Otherwise I would not have drank it nor would you have had the terrible manners to give it as a gift."

When the meaning of his words permeated her sense-drenched brain, Hermione grinned at him. "I believe that you're damning me with faint praise, Professor."

"On the contrary," he assured her, sipping his wine. "I have to admit that I'm curious as to how you procured such an excellent vintage on such short notice."

Her smile broadened, mystery in its lines. "I have my ways," she told him vaguely. At his raised eyebrow, she added primly, "Ways that you are not privy to."

"No doubt."

Their conversation lapped into familiar, comfortable silence, almost the kind of not-speaking that they had shared in Snape's laboratory on numerous occasions except for a tiny frisson of awareness that Hermione could not ignore. It most reminded her of the quiet walk they'd shared on their way back to Hogwarts the morning after Midsummer.

She took another drink of her wine.

Snape, she decided, also felt the strange, slight tension in the air between them because he cleared his throat and broke the silence. "The headmaster seems to think I owe you an apology."

Hermione was surprised not only by the headmaster's words but that Snape had chosen to share them. "Really?"

He nodded. "Not that I agree with him," he quickly warned.

"Of course not," she said, a flicker of humor on her face.

Snape caught it and returned it before his face settled. "I am sorry if I caused you any undue worry because of my last letter."

"I _was_ worried," Hermione admitted, thoughtful. "Though I wouldn't call it _undue_ worry."

"Nevertheless, I did not mean to cause you any worry," he explained, his voice soft and low. "I had hoped it to have the opposite effect, actually. I did not want you to be concerned when I was no longer able to continue our correspondence." There was such uncharacteristic remorse in his voice that Hermione pulled her eyes away from the tiny, cold stars of the night sky to look at Snape. His eyes were intently focused on something far-off in the distance, presenting Hermione with only his profile, much of the cheek hidden straight, dark hair even while the nose remained prominent.

"Apology accepted," she told him lightly, trying to defuse the well of emotions gathering in her chest.

"I don't remember apologizing," Snape informed her, his dark eyes darting toward her.

"Oh, right, I'm sorry," she replied, noticing that humor was once again threatening his mouth to smile.

"Apology accepted."

"More wine?"

"Please."

After the mundane task of refilling the wine glasses had been taken care of, the conversation again ebbed into silence, half-jointed phrases of their last exchange still snatching for meaning in Hermione's mind. She realized - she wondered if it were belatedly - that everything seemed a blurry in her mind; emotions, thoughts, words - they were jumbled into a chaotic mesh with nothing discernible to connect them except for the fact that they were centered on the man at her side, and that something dark and wild in the middle of the chaos was urging action. Later, she would blame it on the wine.

In an action absurdly similar to Snape's, Hermione cleared her throat to break the silence. "Do you remember this summer...when I promised to tell you about the hayam? About my experiences with it?"

"Yes," he answered cautiously as if unsure of question's importance.

"That's what I thought of - when I thought that you were dead," she confessed, looking down at her hands wrapped tightly around her wine glass. "That I had made that promise to you, about the hayam, but I wouldn't be able to keep it because I - I had waited too long."

Snape was unsettled by the amount of emotion in her voice and looked at her inquiringly.

"I know it sounds very silly but..."

"Not at all," Snape assured her. He frowned, thinking as he watched some sadness play across her face. "Your concern shows that you are a remarkably honorable woman."

"You think so?" Hermione asked, sadness wavering. She tilted her head up to look at him and her eyes were luminous in the silvery sheen of moonlight.

"I wouldn't have said it otherwise," he told her stiffly, as if offended that she'd doubted his sincerity.

"Thank you, then. It means a great deal to hear you say that." She took a deep breath. "But I think - the best way...well, you're here and I'm here...and I think...that - I'd like to tell you now. You know, fulfill that promise. Tell you who...tell you who it was...the object that kept me immune to the hayam."

The silence of the cool night suddenly felt oppressive to Snape and he struggled to speak quickly enough. "It's not necessary, Miss Granger. I'll gladly release you from your promise. It's really none of my business - your experiences with the hayam."

"But, as you said this summer, it's not a potion that you know much about...and I'd hate to deprive you from the chance," Hermione said in grim determination, a restless quality in the way her hands roamed over her glass, over the hem of her robe.

"Miss Granger..."

"No," she interrupted him, knowing that she'd made a irrevocable decision. She _wanted_ to tell him the truth - here, now. Hermione suddenly realized that that need to tell Snape the truth was the wild thing in the middle of her muddled musings, the thing that wanted action. "I think...this is something I need to do, Professor. Please."

"Miss Granger." Snape seemed uncomfortable, ill at ease. There was a echo of desperation in his voice that matched Hermione's. "While your desire to keep your promise is admirable, there is no reason for you to..."

"...embarrass us both by confessing my deep, dark secrets to you?" Hermione finished, smiling wanly at his attempt to preserve her dignity. _If only you knew._

Snape was not amused by her attempt at levity and continued to watch her face with black, stormy eyes. "I was going to say that there was no need for you to relive something that it obviously very personal and private."

"But I thought you wanted to know more about the hayam?"

"I did..." Snape answered automatically.

"So, then I should tell you, if for no other reason than that. Since there's so little information available," Hermione told him logically, stubborn in her need to confess.

"Actually, I found an extremely informative book on the subject. Much more informative than the ones available here in our library," Snape explained.

"Really?" In spire of herself, Hermione was curious about the hayam and she wanted to know what Snape might have learned.

"Yes. I've already learned a great deal more about the hayam than I knew, even a few months ago," he said, his tone slipping into the perfect lecture tone.

"Such as?"

"Such as...that the hayam is one of numerous love-related potions developed by an Arabic wizard. Not only was he a potions master but he fancied himself a philosopher and a poet. He wanted to developed a series of potions, each named for a different Arabic word for "love" of which there are over seventy, I believe. He didn't quite make it that far, but I believe his creations numbered in the thirties..." Snape's voice was melodic and captivating as he offered the information.

"That's very interesting, but I think...I still think I should tell you." Hermione felt panic add itself to the wild feeling in her heart. She couldn't understand why Snape seemed so reluctant to hear her confession. Perhaps...he knew the truth and wanted to spare her? Or perhaps he had come to his own conclusions and didn't like the answer? She knew nothing other than the fact that she needed to tell him the truth. "It's..."

"...the hayam is just one potion of many and its name is from the Arabic word meaning love which comes from wondering thirsty in the desert and it is subtly different from other words used for love, such as hub, or fitna, which means love but also illusion and civil war, and then there's a word which specifically deals with passion and infatuation, and then there's ishq which, most closely, means..."

"It's _you_."

The words were faint and hardly more than breath, but they rang clear like a bell in the stillness between them and the night, in Snape's stunned silence. The moment stilled and lengthened, leaden with expectation and shock.

In the utter vacuum following her confession, Hermione could swear she heard the sound of her heart breaking.

"Well..." Moving unsteadily to her feet, she didn't dare look at Snape, unable to face whatever unsavory emotion his features might shown. Her hands were shaking as she abandoned her wine glass and tugged her blue robes tightly around her as if the cloth could magically protect her from her own heart-sickness. She stumbled away from the bench, her blood roaring in her ears and her eyes too wet to make much sense of the shadows that surrounded her.

"Hermione..."

Suddenly there was a large, warm hand on her arm and she was being stopped, turned around on her shaken knees so that she faced Snape. His face was as pale as she knew she had to be, his eyes so dark and fevered that it was painful to look into them. But Hermione remained focused on them as Snape pulled her close, one hand still clasped around her arm as he lifted surprisingly gentle fingers to ghost across her cheek. His face, like that night on Midsummer, was serious and intent but soft in ways she could never explain, and his thin, firm lips were tantalizingly close to hers and Hermione had no idea how one moment she'd been moving away from him and another found herself wrapped in his arms and so certain that he would kiss her this time that she'd have bartered her soul on it.

In that breathless moment, when reality began to bleed into fantasy, there were no twinges and pangs for Hermione. Instead, there was only a hum in her veins and an unexpected surety of movement as she gathered all her courage and hope into a burst of action and closed the infinitesimal space between their mouths.

If there had been anything tentative left in Snape's reaction to her, it was lost in that moment; Hermione felt his arms tighten around her and his lips move against hers in ways she had only dreamed of; and there was fire in her blood and sparks of light in her brain and there was nothing but a singing triumph in her heart replacing the cold, wild fear of moments ago. The vino she had always loved tasted sweeter on his tongue than it ever had on hers, the subtle almond she had always missed in the flavor now exploding in her mouth. She could feel the slickness of his hair against her hands, the heavy roughness of his robes against her knees and she couldn't breathe because she was drowning but she was happy to die.

Their lips parted and Hermione dazedly looked up to see Snape's dark, unreadable eyes on hers. A slightly calloused hand rose again to touch her flushed cheek and Snape's head dropped near her shoulder, so that his warm breath blew against her ear.

"And ishq is love that entwines two people together - inseparable yet still distinct. Independent and yet utterly entangled."

Before Hermione could properly remember realize the importance of the whispered words, she was drowning again, her lips and hands too busy touching and tasting to let her mind think. But there was a harmony spreading through her- like light or warmth or wine - that words could never do justice and so she let go of them and reveled in the brightness of it.

* * *

_  
Author's Notes_: Well, now. There's the confession and a kiss, all in time for St. Valentine's Day. I do hope it hasn't disappointed. I also hope that I got all my Arabic right in this chapter. If not, I blame Snape's ability to understand and not my own.

There are some interesting parallels in this chapter and, although they didn't begin as intentional, I admit to playing them up in some places.

And is it just me or is does it get harder and harder to simply publish something on this site? My god, if they strip anymore of my coding, there won't be any left. I spend more time correcting the mistakes their system makes to my file than I do actually coding the HTML in the first place. I apologize for the cramped coding they forced upon me.

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to beta-goddess **Kel** who did the beta work on this part. In fact, she worked tirelessly to make me crank this out. Any problems still here are products of my own stupidity.

If you are so inclined, leave a review.


	21. Violet and Blue Morning

**Heart over mind : Part XXI  
Violet and Blue Morning   
**

----

Considering the revelry that had rollicked through the halls of Hogwarts Castle only a few hours earlier, Severus Snape was not at all surprised to find himself in the minority when he woke early and set out down the empty corridors of the unusually quiet school. On his way up from the dungeons as he traveled toward the Great Hall, he encountered no other stalwart souls who had just started their day; he met with only one being that was neither portrait nor ghost and he -- a guilty-looking Seventh Year Hufflepuff -- had a look about him that told Snape that the student had yet to see a bed since Voldemort's defeat. Feeling uncharacteristically magnanimous, he only docked the boy's House a handful of points before pointing him solidly toward the Hufflepuff dormitories with a reminder that classes were set to resume soon.

Snape was pleased to see that the reminder of an Advanced Potions essay had the power to eradicate the goofy look of distraction that had set into the boy's features.

Snape was also hardly surprised to see that the Great Hall had returned to its usual, impeccable state after the celebration Dumbledore had hosted within its walls the night before, banners meticulously in place and tables set for breakfast, silver polished and goblets gleaming. He was, on the other hand, mildly surprised that it appeared that he'd arrived at breakfast before anyone -- even his colleagues on staff. And while not unheard-of, Snape knew that Minerva McGonagall, consummate in her role as deputy headmistress, rarely met this hour of the morning without having risen and accomplished half a dozen tasks. Imagining the state she'd have to be suffering in order to still be abed, Snape shook his head in wry amusement before he focused on his meal, a meal that would be enjoyed in utter silence -- a rare occurrence at the boarding school.

Of course, despite his early rising and arrogant attitude, Snape had had as little sleep the night before as he'd had the previous night and, while both nights had involved Hermione, the events of less than twelve hours before had impacted his life in ways that making potions with her had _not_. His world had tilted on its axis in rather startling ways in the past few days and Snape couldn't help but analyze his own reactions to the changes. So far, he could only congratulate himself for handling the transformations in his life so calmly -- wonder when the true import of the changes would actually permeate into his stunned skull.

Sitting alone at breakfast, sipping his tea, Snape mulled over the events that had led up to his actions the night before, the least of which had been his impulsive revelation of feelings that he had long decided to ignore -- feelings he would have never acknowledged if Hermione had not confessed first. He once again found himself marveling at her courage, ironically thankful for her headstrong, impulsive, Gryffindor-ish nature. Her quiet admission had freed him from his own doubts, his own sensibilities, his own fears, and, coupled with the pain he'd heard in her voice, had spurned him to act. He'd stepped outside so many of the boundaries that set around his ideas about right action and right thought and, ignoring most everything that he believed to be sensible, Snape had kissed her. It had been a rash, foolish action; but at that moment, he hadn't much cared for propriety or decorum because nothing else had mattered in the face of such an unbelievable truth: that Hermione -- this incomparable and infuriating creature -- loved him.

Even after having it affirmed many times since that first, hesitant confession, Snape still couldn't ignore the incredulity in the thought. Hermione Granger loved him. Simple, direct, concise -- small English words, easy to understand. But the weight, the importance of that fact shaded and gilded the words, filled with them fascinating nuance and made them drip with hidden meaning.

"Good morning, Severus."

Snape, only through years of training and laboratory work, was able to keep his hands steady in the face of Professor Dumbledore's unexpected presence behind him as the old wizard strolled toward his place at the head table. Snape turned slightly in his seat to watch the headmaster's progress. "Headmaster," he nodded politely, the inherent contrariness of his nature present under the platitude.

"It seems that we'll be eating alone this morning," Dumbledore pointed out in amusement, sweeping a gnarled hand out over the empty hall.

"I find it a refreshing change," Snape admitted stiffly.

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling, a smile twitching at his mouth. "Yes, never one to turn away from peace and quiet, are you, Severus?"

"I enjoy them, yes."

Lowering himself into his seat, he shook his head in familiar exasperations. "Sometimes you strike me as being one of the _oldest_ wizards of my acquaintance."

Snape glanced up over the rim of his teacup. "I could say the same to you."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes, you could and it would be the truth." He paused, staring off toward the tall windows that were bright with the morning sun. His wrinkled face changed, grew pensive. "Things have changed, my boy," he told Snape quietly, serious but not solemn. "The world that we knew for so long is over and we've emerged into a completely different one."

"It isn't over," Snape reminded him just as quietly, now frowning into his cup. "Just because the Dark Lord has finally been defeated for good doesn't mean that his ilk are gone."

"No, you are correct," Dumbledore agreed, eyes drifting away from the windows to look at the ornate goblet around which he'd wrapped his fingers. "Darkness can never be completely gone but...this is a brighter future that we have before us." He took a sip of his iced pumpkin juice. "I will admit that sometimes I did not believe that I would live to see it."

"Nor did I."

"And yet...we did, Severus." Dumbledore reminded him, weary triumphant in his voice.

"Indeed," Snape agreed, one quick nod of his head to emphasize his words.

"We _all_ have a bright future ahead of us, even you, Severus, despite your eternally dismal outlook on life." Dumbledore glanced back toward the golden glow of the glittering windows, spreading his hands as if in supplication. "At least the weather had decided to agree with me this morning," he observed amusedly, motioning toward the windows.

"I always agree with you, Headmaster," Snape pointed out, the feigned disbelief obviously for sarcastic effect.

Dumbledore lowered his hands and peered at the younger wizard over the rim of his moon-shaped spectacles. "Of course, you do. I've just imagined all those disagreements we've had."

"Your age, no doubt," Snape said helpfully, busying himself by reaching for some toast.

"Perhaps it is my age -- but that's something you don't have the ability to blame," the headmaster told him. "You're young, yet. Take advantage of this bright new world. To quote an old friend...it's yours for the taking."

Snape's eyebrow rose in obvious scorn as his nimble fingers allowed the unbuttered toast to drop onto his plate. "Have you given everyone this rousing, inspirational speech or is this especially for my benefit?"

"Not everyone is as stubborn as you," Dumbledore admitted grudgingly, a hint of paternal pride in the complaint. "Most people would make sure to take advantage of the situation -- a chance at new beginnings, freedom from the past...a bright future to be had..."

"My future is bright enough, thank you," came Snape's biting, automatic reply.

Unfortunately for him, it seem to be the exact reaction that Dumbledore wanted because Snape quickly found himself facing that damnable twinkle. "Yes, well...Miss Granger can have that effect on people."

Having tried diligently to ignore the headmaster's flights of fancy even in the face of the damnable twinkle, Snape almost choked on Dumbledore's sly remark. He dropped his fork in a fit of consternation. "I knew that there was a reason behind this conversation."

"I beg your pardon?" Dumbledore murmured innocently, pulling his eyes away from the windows to look questionably at Snape as if the old wizard had spent the last few minutes daydreaming instead of ladling out maudlin advice.

Snape had spent almost two decades with Dumbledore and, like most of the staff, knew better than trust the elderly wizard's innocent facade. "How long have you known?"

"Know what, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, feigning surprise even as his eyes twinkled devilishly and a rakish grin twisted beneath his long beard. "Known that you and Miss Granger are rather close? I didn't realize it was a secret. After all, you _did_ take her to Midsummer and Ljajla..."

Snape's dark scowl spoke eloquently of his displeasure at the headmaster's sly teasing. Instead of answering, he devoted his attention to spreading jam on his toast.

As Dumbledore watched him, the oblivious innocence fell away to be replaced by a more somber, contemplative expression, the very blue eyes suddenly serious and surprisingly earnest as the old wizard watched his former student. "I have watched you be nothing but unhappy for almost three decades, Severus," Dumbledore revealed, genuine sadness in his voice. "I have always hoped that I would live long enough to see you truly happy for once in your life."

He noticed the sadness echoing in the old wizard's voice and turned to look at him, seeing the thoughtful, almost-frowning expression on Dumbledore's face. Snape remembered the thoughts he'd had just before Dumbledore's arrival at breakfast -- his disbelief in the fact that Hermione had confessed to being in love with him, his incredulity that he had been fortunate enough to have this chance...

Snape's mind drifted back to the night before, to that incredible, unbelievable moment when that first kiss had ended and Hermione -- still the more brave -- had spoken first, her voice shaky and uneven as she jokingly explained that _this_ was the reason that she hadn't taken the course of action he'd suggested that summer which had involve confessions in the Great Hall. And he had replied, quickly shaken but more adept at hiding it, that he was astonished at the way her mind worked because she'd tricked him that same summer with her enigmatic statements about saying his name...

There was still an echo of that feeling buried deep in his chest, something heavy and aching but still wonderful, something solid and buoyant and seemingly without a proper name -- except perhaps one.

"I think..." Snape began, his voice quiet and low and hesitant, each word measured carefully. "I think that perhaps you have."

Dumbledore's face softened, turning into a gentle mess of grandfatherly lines and affection. He nodded briskly, smiling. "Then I have lived long enough."

Snape cleared his throat and took a long drink of his own pumpkin juice, allowing the emotions and confessions to be washed away by normative silence. "That sounds terribly fatalistic, Albus," he finally commented dryly, nothing lingering in his face or in his voice to tie him to his confession a moment before.

But still Dumbledore smiled -- though the smile was again the usual infuriating, enigmatic, twinkling variety. "Oh, don't worry about me. I happen to adore this bright new future. In fact...I like it so much I might just live forever." The old wizard lifted his golden goblet in a merry toast, head bowing to the invisible denizens of the room.

And Snape couldn't help but to raise in his own goblet in return, just as he couldn't fight the smile that threatened his face, small though it was. After all, there was no one there to see it and it seemed appropriate, considering.

The merry morning light, streaming through the beveled glass of the tall windows, heartily approved.

------

As much as Hermione loved wine, wine most emphatically did not love her.

It was for exactly this reason that Hermione faced the inevitable arrival of morning with extremely mixed feelings. Groggy, suffering from cotton-mouth and a terrible banging in her head, her eyes were tightly shut against the sunlight threatening the edges of the curtains, her face buried against the pillows in a last-stand attempt to avoid light. However, despite the absolutely terrible hangover she had symptoms of, something tickled at the back of Hermione's sleep-addled mind, telling her that there was a very good reason that she should want to wake up and face the morning.

Since her face was still hidden in the plump bed pillows, the hangover was winning.

According to Maureen, wine hangovers were the worst kind and her current pitiable state left her in no doubt of this fact. Reared in a household where her parents consumed wine at almost every evening meal, Hermione had been taught the value of moderation _and_ the evils of overindulgence. Carolina, daughter of a winemaker, would have been horrified to know that her own daughter had been prepared to drink an entire bottle of good dessert wine all by herself.

It was degrading as well as painful, she decided, slowly floating toward consciousness on the wave of thundering head pains. Hermione had never once before indulged in alcohol to the point where she was left ill the next morning; it was a serious lapse in her usually-sound judgment-making, no matter how much she'd needed solace and, then, Dutch Courage. The most humiliating part of this morning-after was that she knew several spells that cured and tempered the ills of overindulgence -- at that moment, though, her head was pounding too much for her to even look for wand, let alone remember the incantations.

But still there was something telling her that there did exist a very good reason that she should get out of bed. Now.

It was probably the emphatically loud click-click sound of her door handle being turned, followed by the sound of the door creaking open.

Registering exactly what that sound meant spurred Hermione into action: she quickly sat up and groped around the bedside, finding for her labors both her wand and her dressing gown. Pulling them both up into her comforter-draped lap, she only had an instant to give consideration to the fact that she wasn't quite dressed properly for visitors and she could only hope that it wasn't Ron because he would never let her forget about it if he caught her in such obvious disarray as well as undress.

Though she was glad that it wasn't Ron who stepped into her chambers, Hermione was still surprised when her visitor quietly stepped into the room and closed the door.

She had never expected her morning visitor to be a ruffled, almost-distressed-looking Molly Weasley.

"Mrs. Weasley?" she asked uncertainly, squinting against the dimness of her chamber, as if the plump red-head might be an illusion brought on by her pounding headache.

"Hello, Hermione dear," Molly murmured in greeting as if it were normal for her to burst unannounced into Hermione's bedroom. She stood uncertainly just inside the room, her back almost against the door through which she'd just entered. "I hope you don't mind my dropping in on you like this. I had hoped to speak to you at breakfast."

"No, of course, it's fine," the young witch replied automatically, the words, though sincere, returned by rote. "It is unexpected, though."

Molly nodded absently, obviously nervous and ill-at-ease -- characteristics that set Hermione on edge. Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat before striding briskly toward the heavy curtains drawn over the room's windows. "It's not good for you to sleep so late," she chided, sounding more like herself. She flung the drawn curtains opened, flooding the dim chamber with light. "There now! That's better."

Hermione, raising a hand to shield her sensitive eyes, didn't agree but she remained silent on the subject. "Is it very late?" she asked lamely, her mind still working against the handicaps of headache and sleepiness.

Mrs. Weasley turned away from the uncovered windows to look at Hermione, frowning thoughtfully. "It's almost noon," she informed her.

Hermione winced, this time from the knowledge that she'd slept most of the morning away. She decided to blame the time difference between Peru and Scotland.

Mrs. Weasley must have noticed her wince because she was noisily sympathetic. "Don't worry too much," she told her. "After the celebrations last night, you aren't the only one having a lie-in." Molly tutted in obvious displeasure. "Ginny was still asleep when I left the Burrow this morning and she's probably still asleep."

Hermione nodded to show that she was still listening, despite the pain it sent shooting across her temples. Ignoring the pain, she self-consciously pushed her tangled hair away from her face and turned her attention to Molly. "What did you want to speak to me about?" she asked, watching curiously as Mrs. Weasley's face seemed to freeze, plump features caught in an unpleasant-looking tableau between two diverse expressions. "Is something wrong?"

Molly's face relaxed slowly as she answered, "Oh, no, dear, nothing's wrong," she assured her. Her voice was brittle with its false cheer. "I just...there's something I must discuss you."

"Alright," Hermione nodded again. She watched as Molly gestured toward the two chairs sitting around the room's small fireplace and, understanding the gesture as well as the fact that Mrs. Weasley was making herself comfortable in one of the high-backed chairs, she slid from bed and hastily pulled on her dressing gown before tucking her wand in its pocket. She glanced longingly back over her shoulder at her hair brush that lay on the dresser but gathered from Molly's dark, pinched expression that she had no time to waste in prolonged grooming. It was obvious that the Weasley matriarch wanted to have this discussion and have it _now_.

She arranged herself in the second chair, fidgeting under Molly's somber, nervous examination. Hermione couldn't help but be confused; it was as if Molly were searching for something on her face, in her hair, in the shiny lines of her dressing gown, though what it could be Hermione had no idea. She cleared her throat and gazed steadily at the elder witch. "What's this all about?" she asked, allowing her confusion to show in her voice. "Is it something about Harry? Ginny?"

"No," she shook her head, her frown becoming more pronounced. "It's about you, Hermione."

"Me?" There was surprise in Hermione's voice, as well as a bit of defensiveness. While she had always admired and respected her friends' mother, Mrs. Weasley had, on occasion, turned her strong maternal instincts in Hermione's direction, to the unhappiness of both of them. That streak, however, had not made its appearance in several years and Hermione wondered about it now.

"Yes," Molly nodded, hands folded tightly in her lap, lying against the bright pattern of her robes. She hesitated, then began to speak rapidly, words rushing from her. "Hermione, you know that I think about you almost as if you were one of my own children. It's the same way I feel about Harry, and...I know you're a very clever girl but sometimes there are just things that someone needs the kind of advice that can only come from a mother, and..."

"Mrs. Weasley," Hermione interrupted her quietly, eyebrows raised high on her face. "I have a mother and, if this is the talk I think it is, we've already had it."

Molly had the good grace to turn a bit pink on the ears from Hermione's insinuation even as she shook her head. "No, not that. And I know you have a mother and I know she does her best by you..."

Hermione's eyebrows shoot back up again but she remained silent, knowing that the conversation would not be helped if she pointed out the fact that she and Carolina knew how disapproving Molly Weasley was of some of the "scandalous" ways in which Carolina dealt with her daughter.

"...but she is a _Muggle_ and there are some things that she just doesn't know enough about to help you." She paused, still disapproving, and took a deep breath. "And while you and she might have discussed how things are for Muggles, some things are very different for us. For _you_."

She was getting more uneasy by the moment and she was tempted to reach for her wand, if only to hit herself with a pain-reducing spell. Her headache had not lessened in the face of this strange conversation with her best friends' mother. "I know that things are different, Mrs. Weasley. I've been living in the Wizarding World for years now."

Mrs. Weasley opened her mouth as if to contradict her but snapped it shut, sighing. "I think I'm going about this all wrong," she admitted sadly.

"Please, Mrs. Weasley. You can speak frankly. Just say what you want to say."

The plump witch seemed to take the advice to heart and squared her shoulders, pinning Hermione immobile with the flinty gaze of her eyes. "Hermione, I know that things are very casual in the Muggle world about things like love and courtship and..._romance_...but you must understand that it's very different here. Some witches get married right out of Hogwarts and they settle down, they...it's very important to understand these things about our society. This is important, not to you but to everyone else. It's not that I'm saying that you should be thinking about marriage, it's just that these things matter and what you do now will matter. And the worst possible thing you could do right now is to not take these things seriously. _Very_ seriously."

"Mrs. Weasley," Hermione protested, faintly amused. She almost expected to hear the words "scarlet woman" next from Molly's mouth. "I don't know what you're suggesting exactly but I can assure you..."

"I know about your relationship with Professor Snape," the older woman admitted bluntly, her words sharp and meant to end protestation. Hermione had heard her use the same tone on the twins more times than she could count. Even as she knew that she turned white at Molly's pronouncement and felt heart nearly jump out of her chest, Hermione could still dimly hear Mrs. Weasley over the sound of the blood rushing in her ears. "...and it's completely inappropriate. You're...it...Hermione, please listen to me when I say that this...dalliance...is not a good idea."

At the end of her speech, Mrs. Weasley looked to be somewhere between triumphant and horrified; her eyes were bright, color high in her cheeks but her mouth was compressed in a unhappy slanted line and her knuckles had turned white from the force with which she had clasped them -- something Hermione understood because she'd done the same, hands clawing at the generous folds of her dressing gown. For a moment, the silence choked them and the only response Hermione could summon was muteness, horrified and dumbstruck.

She recalled her reactions to Craig's similar sentiments about her and Snape -- she remembered the anger and the way she'd lashed out at him. While she knew she was angry, what she felt now was completely different from that, not only because of who was giving the unsolicited advice but also because circumstances had changed. The relationship she had with Severus Snape this morning was not the same one she'd had the morning before.

Perhaps it was that reason alone that she could react more calmly, her emotions controlled and mediated. There was heat and anger, but it simmered instead of boiled as Hermione loosened her frown in order to answer. "What exactly, may I ask, do you think you know about my relationship with Professor Snape?"

Molly detected the undercurrent of anger and seemed surprised by it. "I know from Dumbledore that you went to the Midsummer festival with him," she replied. "I know that you've carried on a correspondence with him ever since you left school and that you've managed to spend a _great_ deal of time here at Hogwarts since you've left. I know...I know that you passed most of last evening with him alone...need I go on?"

"No, thank you," Hermione said coolly. "However, I don't think anything that you've said so far makes my relationship with Professor Snape inappropriate."

"Hermione..." Molly leaned forward and unclasped her hands, almost as if she wished to reach for the younger witch. "I'm not saying that you've actually done anything inappropriate -- yet. But you must realize that there will be talk and none of it will reflect well on you. You and I both know that Severus has been an invaluable member of the Order but to the society at large...you're a smart girl. You know what people say about him. You're too young to be associating yourself _romantically_ with someone who has such an unsavory past. People will talk, if they aren't already."

"The talk must not be as bad as all that if you've just heard of it from Dumbledore," Hermione snapped without thought.

"Hermione!"

She regretted the barb but couldn't help but feel satisfaction from the shock in Mrs. Weasley's voice. Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she spoke again. "Mrs. Weasley, I understand that you think you're helping," she said slowly, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. "But I'm quite old enough to make my own decisions about who and who not to associate with, either platonically or romantically -- without any help from you."

Molly's frown deepened and the concern in her face hardened into steel, the way it had whenever one of her children would not listen to reason. "What exactly do you think you're going to get from this...relationship? You're a young witch, bright with your whole life ahead of you. You could do anything you want, now that the war is over. Severus is twenty years your senior and has little to offer you, no matter how you look at it. And he's certainly not worth tarring your reputation and I know he has no plans of...whatever promises he may have made you, don't put much faith in them. I know..."

"What you know," Hermione cut in, rising to her feet, trying to suppress her temper, "is absolutely nothing about me or my relationship with Professor Snape. And since I doubt we're ever going to agree on this, I suggest that you leave, Mrs. Weasley."

As she tried to brush past the older witch to open the chamber door, Molly grabbed her by the arm, holding her steady. Hermione looked down at the matronly witch resentfully, silently telling her to release her iron grip. Molly held firm, though her voice was strangely soft as she asked, sadly, "You've haven't said, Hermione...not once. Do you...really? Do you actually _care_ for him enough to make it worthwhile? You're obviously willing to fight for whatever it is you two have, even with those of us who love you. It won't be easy, if you choose this road. Is it worth it to you?"

For a moment, Hermione didn't answer; she calmly extracted her arm from Molly's strong-fingered grip and regarded with older woman with thoughtful eyes that only hinted at the anger that made her body stiff and tense. Then, she sighed and answered. "The answer to all your questions is yes. I know that it isn't what you wanted to hear but it's the truth and, I'm sorry, but no amount of motherly advice from you or anyone else will change how I feel. I don't know what else to tell you."

Molly, still frowning, sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Hermione. I think you're making a mistake. And I don't want to see you hurt."

"I know," Hermione said wearily, suddenly aware again of her pounding headache and raw nerves. Quietly, she added, "I really believe it's time that you leave."

Molly's eyes searched the serious lines of Hermione's expression before she nodded, sighing deeply, as she stood up and headed toward the door. Hermione watched her, arms crossed, as she opened the door but hesitated at the threshold, turning back to look at Hermione. "This won't be the last conversation you'll have like this," Molly reminded her softly, sad and concerned. "I just hope you know that it'll be difficult for your friends to understand."

Hermione nodded. "I know."

"For now, I'll keep this to myself," Molly told her, "but, if you continue with this, it'll come out and you won't be able to avoid hurting your friends over this. I hope it's worth that, too."

Having said her piece, Molly firmed shut the door behind her as she left, the sound of it ringing in Hermione's ears.

------

"You should have warned me!" Hermione said quite vehemently half an hour later, her voice low despite the statement's emphatic nature. "I have never been so horrified in my life!"

Ginny Weasley, the object of her ire, looked sleep-deprived and contrite. "I'm sorry," she apologized sincerely as they exited Hermione's guest quarters and headed toward the Great Hall, hoping to make it there in time for the castle's midday meal. "I knew she found out and I had planned on telling you as soon as I saw you again. I didn't expect her to rush over here after having no sleep in order to give you advice on your love life."

"Dictating orders, more like," Hermione grumbled unkindly.

"Welcome to my world," Ginny quipped wryly. "All interference, all the time."

"As bad as all that?" Hermione asked sympathetically.

"Worse than what she gave you," Ginny admitted. "I'm her actual daughter."

Hermione shot her another sympathetic look as they hurried down a staircase. Ginny had arrived, breathless and full of information, almost on her mother's heels; so soon, in fact, that Hermione hadn't even had time to put her mediwizardry skills to good use and rid herself of her headache. Despite the fact that she had much to tell her friend about the events that had transpired the night before, her attention was swept up in the recent confrontation with the Weasley matron and it had been that story Hermione had wished to share. The red-haired witch had listened intently to her friend's account of the conversation she'd had with Mrs. Weasley while Hermione busied herself not only with recounting her tale but getting dressed and getting rid of the headache that was her last lingering reminder of her overindulgence the night before.

"Not that I think my mother will be anymore pleased than yours when I tell her the truth," Hermione revealed, wincing. "I don't think she'll take it well at all."

"I thought Muggles were all free and easy about that sort of thing," Ginny said thoughtfully. "I didn't think she'd mind."

"Some of the more modern thinkers are very accepting," Hermione explained. "Others are...not."

"And your mum? She's not modern thinking?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "She's very modern in some ways," she admitted. "In others...not so much."

Ginny couldn't help but grin at the look on her friend's face -- a sort of mix between fondness, exasperation and befuddlement. "Ah, parents. The fun they are."

"Yes," Hermione deadpanned. "They are."

Ginny laughed and was heartened to see that Hermione's mood, though still unhappy, had lightened considerably. She could only imagine the kinds of thoughts running through her friend's head after a confrontation with her mother. She knew exactly how painful one of them could be. They rounded a corner and passed a familiar courtyard, a sight that prompted Ginny to change the subject. "Getting away from talk of my mother," she began, looking rather mischievous as they neared the Great Hall. "Let's talk about you."

"What about me?" Hermione asked suspiciously, glancing at her as they walked.

"Well, for one thing, despite this morning's melodrama...someone took a great deal of time with their appearance," she remarked, mock-casual as she eyed Hermione critically. "And while it certainly was worth the effort, it's hardly the usual Hermione Granger approach to life, now is it?"

Hermione looked down incredulously at her clothing -- a jumper and a skirt. "What are you talking about?"

"Hermione, you're wearing _jewelry_," Ginny pointed out as if it were a mortal sin, tapping the spot on her own throat where the amethyst pendant lay against Hermione's skin.

"This?" Hermione's hand unconsciously lifted to touch the heavy pendant. "I always wear this. Well, I have since I've gotten it but usually it's tucked under my robes where it can't be seen. And since when did jewelry become a sign of something ulterior?"

Ginny just grinned. "Since you're doing it."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Will I ever understand the way your mind works?"

"Most likely not," her friend countered amusedly.

Hermione shook her head but she was smiling as the pair finally reached the hall at which one end stood the Great Hall. Suddenly Ginny paused, almost lost in thought, and exclaimed, "Oh! I almost forgot."

Hermione stopped moving forward and turned back to look at her. "What is it?"

"What happened last night?" Ginny asked, once again walking.

Her friend valiantly fought against the color sweeping over her face. "What do you mean?" she countered evasively. While Hermione had every intention of telling Ginny about what had happened, it wasn't a conversation she wanted to have in the main hall where any passer-by could eavesdrop.

"Did Snape ever find you?" Ginny clarified, unaware of her friend's evasion and self-consciousness. "He came by the Great Hall, asking after you. I was with Mum and Professor Dumbledore. I was just wondering if he ever managed to track you down."

"Actually...yes, he did," Hermione admitted weakly.

Ginny studied her friend. "And...?" she prompted, waving her hand in a motion that asked for Hermione to continue.

"And...we talked," she reluctantly said, brushing past her friend and striding down the hall. "Really," Hermione said in a hushed tone when Ginny caught up with her, "this isn't something I want to discuss here or in the Great Hall."

"What...oh, yes, sorry," Ginny agreed, realization dawning. Her own voice was low as she asked, "But you will tell me everything later, won't you?"

Hermione nodded. "I promise."

"Good!" Ginny announced, grinning brightly. "Now that we've got all that out of the way, I have some fantastic news."

"Oh?"

She nodded, red hair slithering around her shoulders with the action. "Before I came to see you, I stopped by the infirmary and..."

As the two witches took the last few steps that brought them to their destination, their entrance into the Great Hall was interrupted as Snape chose that particular moment to exit. Ginny's voice trailed off, warily watching as a strange look crossed Hermione's face now that she looked up to find herself within a few meters of Snape -- it was somewhere between frightened and joyous, knowing but shy, something brightly secretive glimmering under the surface.

Suddenly, Ginny couldn't wait to find out what had happened the night before.

Seeing them, Snape nodded briskly in greeting, though Ginny thought that there was something different in the way his eyes lingered on Hermione's face. "Miss Granger, Miss Weasley." His voice was the same as always -- smooth, low, touched faintly with a richness that seemed to hint at danger.

"Professor Snape," Ginny murmured almost in time with Hermione.

"I take it that you're both rather eager to eat, seeing as how your absences were noted at breakfast," Snape said in his usual silkily sarcastic way that reminded Ginny of times when she'd forgotten her Potions homework. "It's lucky that you were able to rise before you missed this meal as well."

It was Hermione who answered, her voice amused and faintly sardonic -- a fact that only managed to strengthen Ginny's curiosity. "Yes, wasn't it?" she told him, eyes lit with some pleasant but devilish light. "Well, if you'll excuse us, Professor..."

As Hermione reached out to tug Ginny into the Great Hall, Snape -- whose eyebrows has arisen challengingly in the face of Hermione's words -- stepped forward in a swirl of black robes and held up a halting hand. "Actually, Miss Granger...I _was_ hoping to speak to you."

"Oh?" Hermione asked, glancing back at him over her shoulder as she released Ginny's arm.

Snape nodded -- a short, sharp movement of his head. "Yes, there are several...advanced...potions that Madame Pomfrey has found herself needing. While the task is manageable, it would be accomplished more quickly with someone to assist me. I was wondering...if you would like to help."

Hermione nodded, faintly confused. "Of course, I'd be glad to help," she told him, something uncertain in her tone. "When?"

"The sooner you are able to assist me, the happier Madame Pomfrey will be," he answered dryly. "Apparently, several of the patients are in a desperate way -- Lupin, I think is the one she mentioned."

"Professor Lupin?" Hermione echoed, frowning in concern.

"Yes, that one," was Snape's less-than-appropriate response, one that made Ginny wonder how Hermione could continue to converse with him without bristling at his sneering tone.

But instead of looking offended, Hermione was contemplative. "I could come down to your office as soon as I finish eating and..."

Suddenly, Ginny galvanized into action and exploded into the conversation which had, until that pointed, excluded her. "Oh, no you can't!"

Both Snape and Hermione looked over at her surprise. "I can't?" Hermione asked dubiously, absolutely perplexed.

"No, you can't," she repeated, ducking her head at the incredulous stares her words earned her. "I'm sorry," she added, addressing Hermione. "I was just about to tell you: Harry is being released today. We're all supposed to meet Mum and Dad in the Hospital Wing in an hour or so...you see, since Harry is coming to stay with us until he recovers, Mum's got something all planned and...

Ginny trailed off as Snape bowed in acquiesce. "Another time, then," he told Hermione, looking strangely bereft at losing his chance for a lab assistant. "Whenever you are free, please--"

"I'm free now," Hermione hastily interrupted him. "I can help right now and skip eating. After all, if Mrs. Weasley is behind this celebration for Harry, I'm sure it will involve food. I'll eat then."

"If you're certain..."

Hermione quickly nodded, then glanced at Ginny apprehensively. "I'll meet you and your family in an hour," she promised.

Ginny, understanding Hermione's ill-disguised worry, gave her hand a squeeze. "I'm sure it'll be fine," she told her before heading into the Great Hall. "See you in an hour!"

The pair waited until Ginny had disappeared from their sight before moving; Snape made an ushering gesture and Hermione hurried past him, walking steadily toward the dungeons. Snape was right on her heels and, though he rested a light guiding hand on her arm, he said nothing as they walked. She couldn't help but be harried by conflicting emotions -- confusion as well as exhilaration. There was also some diffidence as well; after having spent so much time carefully learning how not to betray herself with her actions, she wasn't certain how she wanted to act now that all that had changed.

Her confusion grew when they reached the stairs leading down to the dungeons and, instead of following her onto them, Snape tugged on her arm and pulled her away from the stairs, down another corridor.

"This isn't the way to the dungeons," Hermione felt the need to point out to her silent companion.

"Yes, I noticed that," Snape returned, faintly acerbic and definitely amused.

"But I thought you were in need of help to make some apparently urgent potions for Madame Pomfrey," Hermione reminded him even as she continued to follow him down another hall that lead them further away from the dungeons.

"There were no potions," Snape admitted brusquely as he led her down another corridor.

"No potions?" Hermione echoed, glancing up at him in confusion.

"None."

"But what about Remus?" she wanted to know.

Snape rolled his eyes as he slid his guiding hand from her arm to the curve of her back. "Lupin is in nauseatingly good health, thanks to you and Madame Pomfrey," he informed her sourly. "I hardly need to sacrifice my time to help him along."

"So you...lied?" she asked slowly, confused.

"I...obfuscated," he corrected her as they came to a hall that ended in a large wooden door, its iron hinges and ancient-looking knob and keyhole fairly ominous. Hermione wondered what could lay behind it.

She turned away from her examination of the door at the dead-end to give him an impatient look. "Yes, but why exactly?"

Snape ignored her for a moment like he pulled an antique-looking key from some pocket in his robes and used it to open the old, oak door. The ancient tumblers seemed to protest but the lock disengaged and Snape was able to turn the knob and open the door. He turned back to her, a challenging gleam in his eyes. "After you," he told her, mockingly formal.

"You still haven't answered my question," she chided him as she passed him and stepped through the doorway. Her steps immediately flattered as she looked around and instead of finding herself in some other part of the castle, she found herself outdoors in the cool autumn air in a sort of garden. It was obviously supposed to be a garden, if one that was a bit overgrown, but it was tucked into some strange hollow in the castle architecture so that while there was no roof to block the sun, the stone walls of the castle up on every side, towering over her and the small patch of cultivated wilderness. It was secluded, quiet and inviting and Hermione turned back toward Snape in inquiry as he was closing the door behind him.

Before she had a chance to ask, however, Snape spoke. "There would have been no need for deception had you not been in Miss Weasley's company," he explained, answering her earlier question. "However...I was not...certain of how you wished to present certain...matters...to your friends."

"Oh," Hermione replied, thoughtful. "Oh, I hadn't even thought about it, actually." She smiled at him. "How very Slytherin of you."

He raised an eyebrow at her comment, amusement threatening his face. "Hardly a surprise, I should hope."

Hermione's smile brightened, widened, suddenly struck by a giddiness she couldn't explain. "No, not at all." She peered around once more at the unusual garden that surrounded them. "So, what is all this?" she asked, arms wide to indicate it all.

"A private garden," he explained. "It's rumored to have been the personal garden for one of the former headmasters but it is rarely used now."

Hermione was obviously impressed as she spun around to observe the entire area in turns from the ivy that climbed up one gray stone wall, to the thick, haphazard lines of overgrown flowering shrubs and the artful naturalness of the entire walled garden. "I've never noticed this place," she said at last.

"It is private," he reminded her. When she appeared to protest, Snape added, "even from meddling Gryffindors armed with magic maps."

Hermione smiled. "Point taken." After she cast one more appraising look around the walled garden, she turned around to find Snape quite near her, arms crossed over his chest. He was watching her intensely, almost alarmingly so, and Hermione found the earlier giddiness turning to nervousness in the pit of her stomach. She idly ran her hand over the top of one of the nearby shrubs. "So..." she darted her eyes away from him as she began to speak. "How should we spend our hour?"

"I had thought that there were things you might have wanted to discuss," he explained, something odd in his voice that she didn't understand. "And I also thought that a place where we are unlikely to be overheard would be best."

"That makes sense..." Hermione answered, still puzzling over the edge to his tone. It was stilted and apprehensive, she noticed. Somehow...halting. Or perhaps...uncertain? It suddenly hit her that the oddness in his voice was the same strangeness she'd heard in it the night before when he had kept trying to stop her from confessing her feelings and that it meant that she wasn't the only person who was feeling nervous about the change in their relationship. It was exhilarating, yes, and completely wonderful but it was also terrifying -- at least for Hermione. It had taken her almost two years of interaction, of give-and-take to become something like friends; now, their feelings had outstripped their comfortable roles and they were left floundering in its wake.

It was a relief to know that Snape felt the same as she; Hermione felt the tension leave her spine as she took a deep breath and felt the knot in her stomach ease before she was finally able to face Snape and his riveting, watchful eyes.

Snape must have noticed her deliberate relaxing because his own posture lost some of his sharpness and he dropped his arms to his sides. "Then you agree?"

"Well, yes," she admitted, her face softening. "There is a great deal to talk about." She paused, considering, as she idly tapped a finger against her pursued lips. "A great deal of questions that need to be answered..."

"Such as...?"

Hermione managed to smile again, a tentative but teasing expression. "Well, for one thing, we should really discuss how you feel about long distance relationships." She raised an eyebrow inquiringly. "Unless you fancy relocating to Peru for the next year or so?"

Snape looked caught between amusement and horror; it eventually played across his face as a raised eyebrow and a twist of his lips that might have been the faintest echo of a smile. "I do not," he told her dryly.

"See? Lots to discuss, then," she teased, answering Snape's lightening mood with her own.

He seemed to take her continued attempts at levity as a good sign because he moved closer to her, closing the gap between them until he could gently rest his hands against arms, a light touch against the wool of her jumper. It was barely an embrace of any kind but it was contact and it felt right and Hermione relaxed just a little bit more, stepping closer to him, strengthening the embrace.

"When will you be leaving?" Snape asked seriously.

"End of the week," she admitted ruefully. "I had an owl from Senora Luisa this morning."

"Will this unexpected sojourn affect your training adversely?" he questioned.

"No," Hermione assured him, absently allowing her fingers brush against the heavy fabric Snape's robes, indulging a small fantasy that she'd harbored since her last year at Hogwarts. "Luisa has been very understanding."

"It's not everyday that a Dark Lord is defeated," Snape pointed out wryly, then asked slyly, "You received an owl this morning? Was this before or after you missed breakfast?"

"After," Hermione admitted laughingly. "I was very tired this morning."

Snape looked unconvinced as he raised a hand to touch his fingers lightly against her temple. "And how is your head?"

"It's fine," she stated firmly. At the utter disbelief on Snape's face, she admitted, "So, I was a little under the weather this morning. It's fine now -- I do have the training to deal with a simple headache." Narrowing her eyes at the smug satisfaction on Snape's face, she continued. "And exactly why did you think I would have a headache this morning?"

"The wine," he said simply.

Hermione winced in remembrance. "It didn't help," she acknowledged. "Though my headache probably wouldn't have been so terrible if I hadn't woken up to..."

"To?" Snape asked sharply, wondering at the sudden grimace on Hermione's face.

She looked back up at him, something like regret in her eyes as she tightened her hold on his robes. "Mrs. Weasley knows," she explained, still grimacing. "About us, that is. Actually, I don't know how much she knows exactly but...she asked me and I didn't deny it and...well, and you needn't worry about Ginny -- you don't have to worry about hiding from Ginny, anyway, she knows the truth of it, too." Her eyes were dark with anxiety. "I know that perhaps we should have talked about that before but..."

Snape's finger to her lips silenced her in mid-diatribe. "Hermione," he began, voice smooth and utterly commanding. "When I said we need to discuss this, I didn't mean..." He paused to gather his thoughts as he removed his finger from Hermione's mouth. "There are very few people in this world whose opinions matter to me," he told her, "and none of them are important enough for me to base my decisions upon them if our positions differ. However..." Another pause before his velvety voice began again. "You have many friends, and, though I sometimes doubt your sanity in the choosing of those friends, I don't doubt their importance to _you_."

He cleared his throat, as if suddenly uncertain. "My only concern for discretion was for your benefit, not mine. I don't care who and who does not know about...us."

The anxiety ebbed away from Hermione's eyes, replaced by a shy pleasure that made her duck her head for a moment before steeling herself to look straight into the dark eyes that watched her so carefully. "Thank you," she murmured. "I didn't never expected you to be so...forth coming."

"I still draw a line at snogging in the Great Hall," he warned her, a genuine smile breaking across his face, first at her surprise then at the laugh it had elicited from her when she recalled the teasing comment he'd made about just such an occurrence only the night before.

"That's good to know," she laughed again, a free and generous sound. Snape's rarer laughter joined hers and the shift from friendship to something more seemed to slide into place just as easily as their laughter mingled together in the air. Hermione's only began to fade when Snape's hand came up to cup her cheek, his expression kind when he spoke. "We need make no decisions this very moment," he assured her.

She nodded her agreement. "We do need to discuss some things, though. And it will take more than the half-hour I have before I have to meet Harry and the Weasleys."

Snape's arms, so careful and uncertain minutes before, wrapped tightly around her with a ease that spoke of surety and possession. "And how do you propose that we spend the remainder of our time together, then?"

Hermione, never one to be out-done, stood on her toes to twine her arms around his neck. "Oh, I have some ideas," she told him impishly. "There were some very interesting ideas raised last night."

His eyes were dark -- with warmth, and innuendo and invitation -- and Hermione felt the giddiness come over her again, seeping into all corners of her until the knots were loosened and there was not even a chance for a twinge or pang. 

And while the kisses the night before had tasted of wine and night and revelations, these tasted of tea, sunlight and promises.

Hermione was equally dazzled.

----

_Author's Notes_: No real notes to offer here, other than a piece of news. From now on, Obscurus Books will have first posting rights on all chapters of HoM. It will first be posted there for a week before I post it anywhere else.

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to beta-goddess **Kel** who did the beta work on this part. In fact, she worked tirelessly to make me crank this out. Any problems still here are products of my own stupidity.

If you are so inclined, leave a review. 


	22. Everything happens for a Reason

**Heart over mind : Part XXII  
Everything happens for a Reason **

  


* * *

It was past midnight by the time Hermione Granger finally staggered into the darkness of her guest chambers at Hogwarts, exhausted both mentally and physically. Until a handful of time before, she'd still been at the Burrow; the celebration for Harry's release from Madam Pomfrey's care might have begun in the early afternoon but it had lasted well into the night, the Weasley home filled not only with their large clan but also with other close friends who had just "stopped by" in order to wish Harry well on his road to complete recovery. Hermione, who had been at her friend's side since before they'd left Hogwarts, had seen that the well-wishing had done him much good, despite the obvious fatigue he'd been working against in the last few hours of the celebration.

The young witch could only imagine how tired her friend must have been from all the excitement since she herself was bone-tired, dead on her feet -- and she wasn't the one recovering from the physical and magical drain it must have took for him to defeat Voldemort. Factoring in the emotional upheaval of it all, she was extremely impressed by how well Harry had managed himself through the day and suddenly realized that she wasn't the only one who had changed in the time the three friends had been apart. Harry of Fifth Year would have never been able to tolerate the day's events.

It led Hermione to wonder what other changes she might have missed in him and Ron.

Still, she was too tired to be very philosophical -- or else she was just tired enough. Without even lighting anything other than one small lamp on her bedside table, Hermione began her nightly routine. She worked automatically and methodically, without much thought placed into the actions she'd done almost every night for the last few years. The tedium and familiarity of it allowed her mind to linger lazily over the events of the day that had led to her exhaustion. First had been the fight with Mrs. Weasley, followed by the brief conversation with Ginny; then, she'd stolen an hour away to spend with Snape -- by his design, no less -- before she'd had to meet Ginny and the rest of the Weasley family at the Hospital Wing in order to accompany Harry home to the Burrow.

It had taken all of her will power to leave Snape and head to the infirmary -- and Snape, fiendish man that he was, hadn't made her task any easier. She'd been flushed and flustered by the time she'd hurried into the infirmary only to find Harry -- pale but steady -- already dressed and ready to depart, surrounded by a bevy of Weasleys. He had also been looking extremely discomfited since the two female members of the clan had been fussing over him in a way that made him squirmy and self-conscious.

Upon noticing Hermione, he'd shot her a quick smile over Ginny's shoulder before surreptitiously sending her a pleading glance that had begged for her intervention between him and the two Weasley woman, both of them had seemed intent on treating him like a five-year-old with Mazieta's Mumps.

Unfortunately for the Boy Who Lived, Hermione's charity ended where basic self-preservation began and she'd refused to enter that particular fray on his behalf, especially with Molly Weasley promising to be one of her opponents. Instead, she'd woven her way through the congregation of celebrants and had busied herself with helping Arthur collect the various potions that Madam Pomfrey had prepared for Harry to carry away with him. In fact, she and the mediwitch had ended up in a long discussion about Harry's condition and the various ways the elder witch had been treating his numerous ailments. She'd been grateful that that conversation had consumed most of her time before the whole group of them used a Portkey supplied by Dumbledore to reach the Burrow where Molly Weasley had indeed set up a repast that had made Hermione glad that she'd skipped the first two meals of the day.

Once the party -- and there was really no other word for a joyous gathering that involved the devilish Weasley twins -- had begun in earnest, Hermione had made it her goal to stay as far away as possible from Molly since the last thing she'd wanted was a repeat of the morning conversation in front of Harry and the rest of the Weasleys. Luckily for her, Molly Weasley prided herself on being a good hostess and most of her energies had been involved in tending to her guests, especially the young guest of honor. Hermione had watched as Harry continued to politely dissuade Molly from her hovering, mother-hen ways only to have the Weasley matron to be replaced by her much more stubborn and single-minded daughter.

It had been mere chance that they'd ended up alone later that evening, finally able to have a conversation without an audience listening in. They had been in the small but comfortable bedroom that had been designated for Harry's use and Hermione, as Madam Pomfrey had ordered, had been painstakingly explaining each of the remedies as she unpacked them so that Harry would know when to take which potion. She had only been about half-way through the batch when she'd looked up to see Harry staring at her, a strange expression on his face.

"What?" she'd asked him, curious.

"You really like all this mediwizardry stuff, don't you?" he'd asked, gesturing toward all bottles sitting on the table beside them, a touch of awe in his voice. "I mean, this is _really_ what you to do for the rest of your life."

"Of course it is," she'd answered. "If it wasn't, I wouldn't have gone halfway around the world to study it."

Harry had looked lost, ducking his head as he admitted, "I don't know what I want to do."

"What do you mean?"

He'd shaken his head dejectedly. "Now that Voldemort's gone..."

"...you can do whatever you'd like," Hermione had finished for him, studying him closely as he glanced up at her again. "It's really quite simple."

"I guess," he'd said doubtfully, shaking his head in contrast to his accepting words. "It's just...I've spent a long time fighting and now I..."

"Yes?" Hermione had inquired gently.

"I don't know!" Harry's frustration had shown through in his voice and in the way he'd swiped his hair out of his eyes.

"Calm down," she'd told him sternly, her manner a little like McGonagall's. Harry had obeyed, a little surprised by Hermione's sharpness. She'd smiled at him to soften her words as she'd gently laid her hands on his shoulders. "It's not a race, Harry. There's no time limit, no test to take. You have time."

"But--"

"No! Listen to me," she'd cut him off. "Voldemort has been dead less than a week and you've only just got out of hospital. Clearly, you need to take some time to think about things. You don't have to make a decision now."

"What if I never figure it out?" he'd asked her softly, head bowed. Hermione had wondered if he'd ever shared these same doubts and worries with anyone else, if Ron or Ginny had already heard this -- if this was something she'd missed about Harry, being so far away for so long.

"You will," she'd assured him, her voice heavy with her own regrets. But she'd pushed them aside in order to offer her friend a little comfort. "Remember...you have the rest of your life to decide."

It had been painful for her in a bittersweet sense to watch his face as he'd suddenly come to realize that he actually did. She'd felt guilty again, for being so far away these last years while Harry had continued to fight against Voldemort, so sure that he wouldn't live past that day.

Hermione had excused herself not too long after that, tired, thoughtful and missing Snape. Unfortunately, her return had been too late for the tentative meeting they'd arranged. And even though she warned him of the chance, knowing of it herself, she was disappointed that she hadn't seen him but a handful of time the entire day.

She sighed and laid down the brush she'd been using on her hair, deciding that she was too tired to do anything more than sleep. She quickly shimmied out of her robes and into her nightclothes, pausing only to draw her hair back from her face before burying herself under the luxuriant quilts that decorated the bed in her guest chamber. It wasn't until she reached over to dowse the lamp that sat on the small beside table that she noticed a piece of parchment lying across its mahogany surface, folded crisply and addressed to her in a handwriting she'd come to recognize instantly. Abandoning her task of dousing the lamp, Hermione instead reached for the parchment as she pulled herself into a sitting position, leaning back against the bed's ornate headboard as she began to read:

Although I did not doubt your sincerity when you said you would endeavor to return to the castle at the earliest convenience, I did doubt your ability to pull yourself from the clutches of Potter and the Weasley clan with any sort of haste. It has been a failing of yours for as long as I have known you, to indulge them in their need for your presence whenever possible. Though, I suppose it isn't wholly unreasonable given certain recent events in Potter's case.

Perhaps.

If you find yourself in search of me tomorrow, I will be spending the majority of the morning in my office. Despite the students' hopes, classes will be resuming soon.

Until then,  
S

It was ridiculous, Hermione decided, to be so pleased over Snape's short, typically brusque missive but she was nonetheless. Smiling as she tucked the note back into its place on her night stand, she took a moment to enthusiastically plump her pillows before finally extinguishing the lamp at her bedside.

She was planning for an early morning.

----

Despite her best intentions, Hermione hadn't managed to rise from bed all that early the next morning, thanks to several late nights in a row. Once she did wake, she dressed in record time and headed purposely down into the bowels of the castle as soon as she could, ignoring the fact that she'd missed breakfast once again.

When she finally burst into Snape's office, she was surprised to see that he was nowhere to be found. She glanced toward the wall and immediately understood: the serpentine-decorated door that led to his private lab space was visible to the naked eye, obviously a sign that he was waiting for her within. She easily passed through the wards and into the laboratory in which she'd spent so much of her time during the summer.

Snape wasn't working on some potion or checking his inventory of supplies, either of which she'd expected would be reasons that would take him into his labs. Instead, he was pacing around the space, opening various cabinets and pulling things from within, most of which were dropped into a satchel case he had in one hand. Across the workspace were strewn various rolls of parchment, some spread open to reveal their contents while others were merely stacked to the side, as if waiting to be read. As Hermione tiptoed around the workbench, she glanced down at the parchment only to watch the ink disappear from it as she drew close enough to read it.

Finally sensing her presence, Snape stopped his search, turning to see her. His face was tight, drawn and serious -- a look she'd hoped that she'd never have to see again on him, not after that last battle. Something cold clutched in her chest. "What's wrong?" she demanded to know.

In the face of her question, Snape sighed, laying his satchel on one of the workbenches. "Nothing," he answered, his dark eyes softening as he glanced over at her again. When she didn't seem to believe him, he added, "But something has...happened."

"What kind of something?" Hermione asked, suspiciously. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the agitation in the way he clenched his hands at his sides.

Snape moved with his usual strange grace across the laboratory until he was at her side, his pale hands resting warmly on her shoulders. "Nothing that concerns you," he told her in a tone that warned against any more questions. "However, it does need my...attention. I must go."

"Today?"

"As soon as possible," Snape said regretfully.

"That's rather sudden, don't you think?"

"It happened rather suddenly. It was unexpected, I assure you." Snape watched her carefully. "I'm sorry."

"I understand," Hermione assured him, frowning as she added, "But I thought that...that it was over. For you. This kind of...concern..." She glanced pointedly from his drawn face to the parchment covered in disappearing ink, a clue that screamed "Order business" and "espionage" to her.

"I had hoped that myself," he said seriously. "However, sometimes such things are never finished. Not completely." He watched her with dark, knowing eyes.

"When will you be back?" Hermione asked, concern in her every line of her face.

She felt his hands tighten on her shoulders. "Not until sometime in the middle of next week," he admitted.

"I'm leaving Sunday," she reminded him.

"Yes, I know," Snape sighed, sliding his hands down her arms in order to draw her closer to him.

Hermione was still frowning, obviously unhappy with the turn of events. "Well, then maybe we'd better have that discussion about long-distance relationships right now."

Snape's face softened again, humor almost bringing a smile to his lips. "I don't think we have the time for it."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Then you'd better just say yea or nay and be quick about it or else we'll be finished before we're started."

"Then, by all means. Allow me to weigh in on the matter," Snape's smooth voice washed over her and Hermione decided that it wasn't fair that his voice could do that to her. But then he was kissing her and the fact that his lips could do that to her was even more unfair and she'd almost forgotten what she'd asked when he murmured against her lips. "Does that answer your question?"

"I'm not sure," she whispered breathily, once she'd remembered. "Was that a yea or nay?"

Snape's quiet chuckle reverberated in his chest and she could feel it in hers so close were they. She smiled, despite her unhappiness with the situation, despite how unfair she thought it was that they'd had one day -- most of which she spent with Harry and the Weasleys -- together. She smiled because it really was a wondrous thing happening between them and she was grateful for it and that there was promise of it in the future once an ocean no longer separated them again.

"Perhaps I should give you my answer again," Snape told her, eyebrow raised.

"Perhaps you should," Hermione retorted, luxuriating in the feel of his hand tracing along her face as he leaned in to kiss her again.

"...good, Severus, here you are. I need to speak..." Dumbledore trailed off as he swept into the laboratory. Snape and Hermione jumped apart rather guiltily even as Dumbledore was brought up short by the sight of them, a twinkling expression on his face as he looked at them over the top of his spectacles. "Ah, Miss Granger. Hello."

"Good morning, Professor Dumbledore," Hermione answered, color high in her cheeks.

"I didn't expect to you see here, I must admit," he told her pleasantly.

"I was just informing Miss Granger of my imminent departure," Snape explained.

"I'm sure you were, Severus," Dumbledore said, smiling at the two of them in that mischievous, grandfatherly way he had that made Hermione wish the estimable old wizard could meet her nonna. The good humor dimmed some as he nodded to them both. "I'll just step outside until you finish your...explanation," he informed them. "But, Severus, I do need to speak to you as soon as possible."

"Of course," Snape nodded.

Dumbledore nodded again before turning around and disappearing from the room, back into Snape's office.

Hermione sighed. "I guess this is goodbye, then."

"Hermione..." Snape began, his voice trailing off as he searched for words.

She shook her head. "Don't worry. I understand. I..."

Snape hesitantly pushed a few strands of her long, wild hair from her face, his touch soft and fleeting as if he wasn't quite sure of it. "Our timing has left something to be desired, hasn't it?"

"I'll write you as soon as I'm back in Peru," Hermione told him determinedly, as if it were as much a threat as it was a promise. "It'll be waiting for you when you get back here next week."

"That's something to look forward to," he said dryly, though she knew he meant it only to tease her.

"There'll be a great deal more of them between now and Christmas," she told him. "Then I'll be back in Britain, at least until after the new year."

"I think you need to get going, Hermione," he told her softly.

She nodded, taking a step back from and putting space between their bodies once again. He nodded to her in a silent goodbye, his spine stiff and straight as he waited for her to leave. But instead of taking another step away, Hermione stepped forward again -- surprising Snape, with the action -- and grabbed hold of the fabric of his robes around his collarbone and pulled him down so that his lips met hers. It was the first kiss in their short relationship that she'd initiated and she knew that her inexperience was probably appallingly obvious but his mouth was firm and wonderful against hers and when she finally let go of him, they were both a bit flushed.

"Goodbye," she whispered into the dark fabric of his robes before spinning on her heel and hurrying away, not quite sure she'd be willing to leave if she waited much longer. His goodbye echoed in her ears as she rushed past a sympathetic Dumbledore who was still waiting to speak to Snape.

Hermione didn't slow down until she reached the Great Hall.

She'd always hated saying goodbye.

----

Hermione,

Just as you promised, I did find your letter waiting for me upon my return to Hogwarts. I am glad to know that you arrived safely back in Peru and are as busy as usual. And while I cannot tell you exactly what it was I had to do, I can tell you that it went well. Hopefully, it will be the last such mission I need to undertake.

Not too long after my return, I had a most uncomfortable conversation with Molly Weasley, the subject of which I am sure you can guess. She leveled several idiotic accusations at the pair of us, all of which I believe overestimated my general appeal to the opposite sex and underestimated your intellect and common sense. I told her as much and ended the conversation quickly as I have no need or desire to explain myself to the likes of her. I am continually confused as to how or why you put up with her or her insufferable meddling.

Speaking of people that you are fond of for no reason I can fathom, I've seen Potter here at Hogwarts several times. There is no need for his presence but he continues to subject the castle's denizens with it on a rather annoying consistent basis. He spends a great deal of time with headmaster when he comes and that greatly worries me or, after each such occasion, the headmaster has this look in his eye that makes me think that he's about to do something unforgivable, like offer Potter a position here at the school. Men have quit their professions over less provocation than that.

I would write more but other, mundane matters are calling for my attention. I will write again when I am able.

S

--

Dear Hermione,

How are you? I know you tend to think that it's all your fault that we didn't keep in better touch since you moved to Peru but owls do fly in both directions and I could have done a better job in keeping in touch with you, too. So, here I am writing you this owl. I've had a lot more time on my hands lately since I didn't go back into Auror training. Now that Voldemort is gone, I'm not sure that I want to spend the rest of my life fighting Dark wizards, at least not yet. But I'm just as sure that I don't want to go into professional Quidditch either, even though I've got a few offers. So if you have _Witch Weekly_ in Peru, ignore the rumours in them!

Mostly, I've been trying to make up with Ginny for the shabby way I treated her and I've been discussing my options with Dumbledore. I've been up to Hogwarts a few times and the last time I was there, I think Snape was almost nice to me. Well, when he saw me, he snorted and said "Not you again" and walked off -- which is a vast improvement over what he'd said the last time I saw him. It almost gave me a heart attack.

I hope everything's nice there in Peru. Write back soon if you can.

Harry

PS - Ginny and Ron say hello, although they're both too lazy to write themselves!

--

My darling niece,

It is absolutely horrible of you to write me a letter asking for my advice and then to never reply and tell me what happened! Did you decide upon your wildly inappropriate man? And just how wildly inappropriate he is? I keep having these absolutely romantic images of some dashing wizard -- that's the right word, isn't it? -- that you've met but I'm probably getting carried away. Of course, if you'd just fill me in, I'd know, wouldn't I?

So, did you tell him? How did he take it? And have you made use of that lingerie yet? You must share these things with me!

all my love,  
Sophia

--

Dear Hermione,

I can't tell you how difficult it is to keep a straight face around here when Harry or Ron starts talking about Snape. I mean, really! I'm the only one in the house other than Mum who knows that Snape isn't just this old git of a teacher we once had (sorry, Hermione, but it's true!) and that's all. I know that he's someone you've snogged! And that he's someone who's he's quite good at it, according to you.

I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry when I re-read that last sentence.

I still can hardly believe that you two are...what? What do you call yourselves? I certainly can't imagine calling Snape "your boyfriend" because it's utterly ridiculous and calling him "your lover" is a bit too vivid, thanks! I can hardly think about you snogging him; I don't want to contemplate what else you may do with him.

You haven't, have you?

Mum knows, though, and I can't believe she hasn't spilled to everyone yet. I have a feeling that she's told Dad though because when Harry was talking about Snape treating him almost like a human being, Dad got the strangest look on his face and not two minutes later asked about you. Bill may know but I promise I didn't tell him, as much as I'd have liked to.

What I want to know is -- when are you going to tell Harry and Ron? Surely, Hermione, you've thought of what a fantastic kind of explosion that conversation promises to be. I know you have. But still, you can't keep it a secret forever since I doubt Mum will last that long. Are you going to do it at Christmas?

Write back soon!

love,  
Ginny

--

Hermione,

I'm sure that someone else has probably told you of the current hysteria in here in Britain as the new government tries to convict many of the Death Eaters that have been captured since the Dark Lord's defeat. The most interesting case -- and the one gaining the most publicity -- is that of Draco Malfoy. Despite the general consensus to punish any wizard even tenuously connected to the Dark Lord, he's gathered a bit of public support, especially from the pureblood families that themselves are not under suspicion of dark magic. I must admit that I am curious to see how it will all turn out.

As for this issue of Mr. Hartford's upcoming nuptials, I do believe that I've already shared with you my opinion on attending a wedding. However, if you insist, I will accompany you as your guest to the wedding. I doubt Mr. Hartford will welcome my presence but, for you, I will tolerate the whole affair. Hopefully this one wedding will suffice to assuage your curiosity for the time being and I will not be forced to attend another one, at least until Potter and Miss Weasley decide to "do the decent thing," most likely at Molly Weasley's sanctimonious urging.

Though I have never been particularly fond of holidays since I've become an adult, I admit that knowing that you'll be home around that time of the year has made me sensitive to the fact that the date draws near. In fact, I will even admit to being aware of how many days are left between then and now.

I do look forward to seeing you.

yours,  
S

--

Hermione cara,

Tell me that you'll be home in time for Christmas, please? It won't be the holidays without you and your aunt Sophia is even threatening to visit this year. And, of course, that means that your nonna says that if Sophia comes, she and nonno will come, too. If you aren't here, I'll be forced to kill your nonna and your aunt because they'll drive me mad. I swear, cara. They will.

And besides that, I miss you terribly. I know it hasn't been two months since I last saw you, I miss you so much. Your father says it's all in my head but I feel so much more lonely with you being so far away. I can feel the extra distance in my heart; I know there that you're so, so very far away. I know you love being in Peru but it makes me worry about you. I've always felt helpless in the face of your growing inclusion in the wizarding world at the exclusion of the Muggle but the distance makes it all the more enormous. The fact that that evil lord has been defeated eases my mind some but I still worry about you. Constantly.

Now that I've embarrassed you with my overemotional twaddle, let's discuss Christmas a bit more. What is it that you want for Christmas, Hermione? If you want some things from the wizarding world, you'd best let me know as soon as possible because I'll have to have time to write the Weasleys so that they can make the purchase for us. Molly wrote to me not too long ago and told me that it would probably be safe for us to go to Diagon Alley on our own if we tell Tom who we are but I'd rather not risk it. I'd rather have Ginny pick it up for me, especially since she's so much more attuned to what's fashionable for witches that would still be in your taste. Think on it and let me know. Your father is getting golf clubs from me this year, so if you'd like to get something golf-themed, it'll work marvelously.

I hope to see you as soon as possible, cara. Mi manchi.

Much love,  
Mama

----

"Hermione, querida, where are you?"

Hermione quickly folded up her mother's last letter and added it to the stack in her tahuari box before snapping the lid shut. She glanced up toward the bedroom's entrance to see Marisol standing in the doorway, smiling at her. "Ah, there you are, mi amiga."

"Yes, here I am," Hermione smiled back, walking across the room to where her traveling trunk was open and half-full. Most of the surface space in the small bed chamber was bare, and even the bed was stripped of its sheets and coverlet -- all of which were already folded and stashed in Hermione's large trunk. "Just packing the last of my things."

Marisol nodded, glancing around. "I see. When do you return to Inglaterra?"

"The day after tomorrow," Hermione answered as she folded the tablecloth that had once decorated her night stand. "Señora Luisa is going to meet friends in London and she's letting me travel with her." Hermione laid the folded cloth in her trunk. "What about you? Aren't you leaving today?"

"Yes, exactly," Marisol nodded. "In fact, that is why I came looking for you. I have come to say goodbye. My Carlos is here and I will be leaving very soon."

"Oh, Marisol..." Hermione set aside the tablecloth in order to give her friend a quick hug. "Have a very Happy Christmas and I'll see you after the holiday."

Marisol returned the affectionate embrace, her thick black hair brushing against Hermione's cheek. "The same to you, my friend. Feliz Navidad!" She pulled away, misty-eyed but still smiling. "I have to say that I am so pleased to have seen you so much happier this month since your friends are safe from that terrible Lord Voldemeurte who is dead and gone, thank goodness."

"Thank you," Hermione told her. "And thanks for helping me shop for my family. I would have never gotten the bargains I did without you helping me, especially with my atrocious Spanish skills."

Marisol grinned devilishly. "It was my pleasure, Hermione!" She squeezed her friend's hand. "Give my love to them all when you see them. Especially to su amor, the one whose letters make your face light up. I am most thankful for him."

"And the same to your Carlos," Hermione smiled. "Give him and Esperanza my best."

"I will," Marisol promised. The two witches heard a masculine voice calling from the front door. "That would be him. Adios, Hermione!" With a quick kiss on Hermione's cheek, Marisol was gone. Hermione turned back to place the folded tablecloth in her chest as, a few minutes later, the sounds of Marisol and Carlos's departure echoed through the small, empty cottage.

It was eerily quiet in the bungalow all by herself but Hermione didn't mind it so much, mostly because she knew that she wouldn't be spending the night there alone. As soon as she was finished packing away all her belongings, Robert was coming along and the two of them -- the last two apprentices left -- were heading up to the main complex to stay. She would be staying in the main building until she and Luisa left in two days' time while Robert would be leaving for his own home the next morning. As she laid the folded cloth flat in her trunk, Hermione silently reminded herself to stop by and give Manuelito his present from her before she left for London.

Straightening up, she glanced around the barren room and only saw one personal object remaining: her Idol of Mnemosyne. Hermione carefully picked up the statue and wrapped it one of her spare robes before placing it on the top of the belongings stack in her trunk, secured and protected not only be the soft fabric of her robes but also a number of cushioning charms.

It still surprised her that it was already time for the Nazca Institute's winter holiday.

November and the first half of December had passed quickly for Hermione, especially since the dread that had weighed on her during the first few months of her apprenticeship in Peru had lifted after Voldemort's demise. With work she loved and a constant flow of letters between Nazca and all her loved ones in Britain, the six weeks that had separated her last visit home and her next had flown by quickly, so quickly that she could scarcely believe it. Before she'd realized it, the various trials and tribulations of going home were upon her again -- the tedium of packing, the emotional goodbyes with the friends she'd made, the bittersweet nostalgia that was tied up in leaving a place she liked, all of which was underscored by an impatience to see everyone back in England and the joy that the spirit of the season brought to her, something that was very different from the Christmas before.

With a sigh, Hermione closed the trunk's lid and gave the room one more cursory inspection. Although it hadn't been very long since Voldemort's defeat and since she'd last seen everyone -- her mother, Harry, Ginny, Ron and, most specifically, Snape -- she could hardly contain her happiness. She was eager to see them all again, to tell them of the things that she'd experienced in Nazca, many of which she'd forgotten about in the few days she'd spent in Britain with everything being so overshadowed by Voldemort's death.

And Snape.

Although she'd never admit it to anyone, she was most excited at the prospect of seeing Snape again. It had all happened so fast between them in those last few days: the realization and relief that he had survived, then the confession -- that wonderful, beautiful moment she'd never forget when he first kissed her -- and the those few, snatched moments between then and when he'd left so abruptly. There was still an unreality to the situation, she felt; she needed more proof that it all hadn't been a very nice but delusional dream.

His letters had helped, although there wasn't much difference in the ones he wrote her now and the ones he'd written before. Still there were subtle changes -- his salutations, his signature. He was less biting, more thoughtful but still very careful and so very formal. Hermione felt the differences rather than noticed them, reading between the penned words and allowing the little studied hints of affection remind her that she didn't imagine any of it what happened between them.

But even though Snape weighed most heavily on her mind, her holiday was already bursting with things to do. There was Wyatt's wedding to attend -- and Elena and Maureen to see -- and last-minute shopping to finish and the prospect of seeing her aunt Sophia at Christmastime and her mother to spend time with and Harry to check up on and...

...and Snape to visit as soon as absolutely possible...

And even though Hermione knew that certain confessions loomed large in her future -- none of which she relished -- the excitement of it all still bubbled in her.

No matter what happened, it was promising to be a very exciting Christmas season for Hermione Granger.

* * *

_Author's Notes_: Yes, there's more to come. Despite the hiatus, despite the writer's block and despite Book 6, HoM carries on, still wonderfully AU. Oh and a word to reviewers: if you have a question for me, it's much easier for you to answer if you email me directly! I seriously don't mind and I'd love to answer any questions I can. Please, feel free to email me.

I also continue to hate this website's inability to leave my HTML coding alone. So I apologize for their stupidity if the letters are a bit mushed together. It is in no way my fault because they were coded perfectly before the upload.

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to beta-goddess **Kel** who did the beta work on this part. In fact, she worked tirelessly to make me crank this out. Any problems still here are products of my own stupidity.

If you are so inclined, leave a review.


	23. There's no easy way

**Heart over mind : Part XXIII  
There's no easy way**

----

Victoria Gringle and Wyatt Hartford were married on an early December morning, surrounded by their closest friends and relatives.

Severus Snape was present as well, though he was neither friend nor relative; he was there because Hermione Granger, once she'd made up her mind, could not be dissuaded from anything, including her stubborn desire that he attend the nuptials with her.

For her part, Hermione was enchanted by everything she saw at her first Wizarding wedding; she'd had little need to research the topic in the past, so every small detail was new and interesting, from the glittering decorations to Victoria's lovely silken robes to the peculiar arrangement of the bridal party. It certainly wasn't anything like her second cousin's Catholic wedding or any of the several weddings her aunt Sophia had had. As much as she was there to celebrate the day with Wyatt, Hermione was unflinchingly curious about this facet of the Wizarding World compared to her own Muggle frame of reference.

"I think it was a lovely ceremony," Hermione told Snape as they stood close together in the Gringles' living room, sipping the punch that a teary Mrs. Gringle has pressed into their hands a few minutes before. The room was crowded with wedding guests, all talking and laughing and celebrating, the newly wedded couple at the center of attention.

Snape leaned in slightly, his free hand resting lightly on her arm. "You have said yourself -- many times, in fact -- that you've never seen a Wizard wedding before."

"So? It was still lovely," she told him, rolling her eyes genially, far from piqued by his typical sardonic humor. It still seemed a bit strange, to be standing with him, in public, doing nothing to hide the fact that they were there together -- but there was also a thrill to it, too. "Compared to what I do know, it was still a lovely service. Victoria is such a beautiful bride."

It was Snape's turn to roll his eyes. "As long as you've had your fill of these things," he murmured near her ear, having to lean in closer to be heard over the din of the room. "I don't plan on sitting through another of these tedious affairs any time in the near future."

"You said Harry and Ginny's wedding," she reminded him smugly, smiling at the sour look on his face. "I even have it in writing."

"Then you had better hope that no more of your university friends marry anytime soon," he said back, his dark eyes trailing across the room to where Maureen and Elena were moving through the crowd toward them. "I don't plan to make exceptions to that promise."

Hermione followed his gaze and watched as Maureen and Elena cut a swath through the crowd of bodies, Maureen's mouth moving at a rapid-fire pace. She could only imagine what her outspoken American friend was saying; she had a niggling suspicion it was something about _her_.

Hermione had many plans for her Christmas holiday, a holiday that had only started a few days before. Though she and Snape had not discussed it with any kind of seriousness, they both knew the inevitable was coming -- they would have to make their relationship known. For Hermione, this was especially true because, while Snape had no real family or friends to confess to outside of Dumbledore and his fellow teachers at Hogwarts, Hermione had a large network of relations, to all of whom she felt obligated to be truthful -- no matter how difficult it was going to be.

And there was no telling how much longer Molly Weasley would keep the secret to herself.

Wyatt's wedding, though attended by only a handful of people that she knew, was Hermione's dress rehearsal for those confessions and, just as she'd thought, introducing Snape to Maureen and Elena has proved to be very interesting.

"Hermione, Hermione, come on," Maureen rushed over and grabbed her hands, pulling Hermione away from her thoughts. She did watch amusedly, though, as the girl glanced at Snape nervously before adding, "And Professor Snape, too. I demand that you both stand with us in the receiving line. Gotta kiss the bride and smack the groom after all!"

Elena's greetings were more polite and she shot her friend a look at her ridiculous pronouncement. "You're not really going to slap Wyatt, are you?"

"Of course I am," Maureen told her determinedly as the four of them moved into through the crowd once again to loiter at the end of the length line of people waiting to offer the couple their congratulations and best wishes. "Right after I plant a big ole kiss on Vicky!"

Hermione stifled a laugh behind her hand at Maureen's predictably outrageous behavior, cutting her eyes back over her shoulder to see Snape's reaction. One eyebrow was lifted condescendingly when he noticed her gaze on him but she could tell by the slanted turn of his mouth that he was just as amused by her crazy friend as she was. That was something else that was strange, too -- to be able to read him so easily, to know that they shared something like a strange sense of humor.

Despite its harrowing length, the receiving line moved quickly and soon Hermione was wishing Victoria well and telling her what a lovely bride she was. Victoria, who was already blushing, turned even redder, happiness shining out of her smiling eyes. When she reached the beaming groom, Hermione was hugged fiercely and she murmured her congratulations in Wyatt's ear laughingly as he knocked the wind right out of her.

She wasn't the only one doing the whispering, though. "You lied to me at Midsummer, didn't you?" he asked, shooting a significant glance over to where Snape was now politely offering his best wishes to the bride.

There wasn't enough time to explain that she hadn't meant to lie or that she'd never expected Snape to return her feelings. Instead, she stepped back and smiled. "Yes, I did."

Wyatt grinned at her. "Well, to each his own, they say."

"And you've managed to pick 'your own' extraordinarily well, Mr. Hartford," Snape remarked dryly as he stepped over to speak to Wyatt. As the two of them exchanged stilted niceties, Maureen tugged Hermione away with a brief word of apology to Snape as she drug her friend around the room to meet with people, to talk with old friends she hadn't seen, to become acquainted with ones she'd never met.

Her eyes caught Snape's for a moment and she silently promised to make the rounds as short as possible but he nodded at her, hoping she knew what he meant by it. Despite his own desire to be absent, he had also had little desire to dampen her spirits for the occasion.

After Snape watched her disappear with her loud, obnoxious friend, he quietly excused himself from the groom only to be intercepted first by the bride's father, then the groom's. When he'd finally extricated himself from the newlyweds' relations, he'd shook almost a dozen hands and offered every word of congratulations he knew. It was only for Hermione's sake that he was managing to be as polite as he was behaving; he was suddenly in need of something stronger than punch if he was going to endure much more of this festive camaraderie.

Luckily he found it in the form of a hot, spiced punch that the bride's sister was doling out from a cauldron set up near the cake and he offered her something close to genuine thanks when she handed him a cup. Snape quickly settled himself into a corner where he could wait for Hermione and be as sheltered as possible from the crowd. Like Hermione, the whole situation felt strange to him. It had a stark feeling of unreality to it, being here with her, acknowledging something, even tacitly, that they both had an instinctive desire to conceal.

If he were younger and stupider, he might have been hurt by Hermione's marked unease at the prospect of being honest with her family and friends. He was not, however; in fact, he understood more than she guessed. She was such an honest creature, the lie-by-omission was weighing heavily on her but, as an intelligent woman, she knew that the truth wouldn't automatically end her troubles. Since he personally cared little about who did and didn't know about how he felt for her, Snape was content to sit back and let her work her issues out as she saw fit, even if it meant attending Hartford's wedding with her to help her prepare for the unavoidable trouble that loomed ahead.

Snape was also honest enough to admit that the feeling of unreality extended to their relationship in general. Sometimes, while she'd been away, he'd wondered if that night had been some bizarre hallucination on his part because it seemed unfathomable that Hermione Granger would actually confess her undying love to him in the Hogwarts courtyard, half-drunk on her grandmother's wine. But Snape was selfish enough not to let a sense of unfairness -- to Hermione, of course -- ruin what he knew was as wonderful as all that. He was perfectly willing to accept his unexpected fortune without question.

"I thought that was you, Severus," a steely female voice announced from somewhere near his right shoulder. "But I decided that I had to be wrong. And yet...here you are."

The last person Snape had expected to encounter at Hartford's wedding in a miniscule town near Hogsmeade was Minerva McGonagall but there she stood, dressed in her usual unattractive tartan, a wizened expression pinching her eyes as they regarded him from behind her spectacles. "Minerva," he replied in greeting, nodding slightly in her direction. "I didn't expect you to be here, either."

"_I_ am very good friends with Victoria's grandmother, which is why I'm here," she explained archly, gesturing with her own glass of punch. "What about you? I certainly don't remember you being so close that Mr. Hartford would invite _you_ to his wedding all these years after he left Hogwarts."

Without conscious thought, Snape's eyes drifted over the crowd until they landed on Hermione who on the other side of the room, having a rather heated discussion with a young man he recognized as the Auror she'd been seeing while she'd been studying at Trinity. He frowned, wondering what they could be discussing that had her looking so distressed.

"Ah." It was a resigned, knowing sound coming from McGonagall's lips. "As I thought."

"And what is that?" Snape asked coolly, dragging his attention back to the stern visage of his former teacher, now colleague.

"I saw you together -- earlier," McGonagall explained slowly, motioning toward Hermione. "You were very -- cozy. I..."

Snape didn't say anything but met her eyes squarely, a hint of challenge in them.

McGonagall pressed on. "I had...wondered. Before. I just didn't think it was true. I admit I'm that surprised that it is."

"Do you expect me to say something to mitigate your surprise?" Snape asked. "I'm afraid nothing comes to mind."

McGonagall frowned at him, peering imperiously at him over the top of her spectacles in the same manner she had when he'd been an unruly Fifth Year. "There's no need for your attitude, Severus. I wasn't passing judgment."

His face showed his palpable disbelief in her statement.

McGonagall shook her head. "I'll see you back at the school tonight, Professor," she told him as she headed off in the direction of a group of older witches, one of which had the bride's pleasant features echoed in her older face.

Snape took another sip of his spiked punch and searched the crowd with his eyes, hoping to spot Hermione. Silently, he gave a prayer that they'd be leaving soon.

The last thing he could stand was another surprise like that.

* * *

Later that night, when they'd returned to Hogwarts, Hermione couldn't help but laugh at Snape's dry recounting of his talk with McGonagall.

"I don't see what you find so amusing," he told her.

The humor was still dancing in her eyes. "I can't really explain it, Severus," she admitted, still on the verge of laughter. "It's just -- the look on your face! I can only imagine what a pair the two of you were at the wedding!"

Snape might have begrudged Hermione her laughter if it hadn't been the first real sign of it since that conversation had taken place. When she'd found him moments later, she'd been subdued and somber -- no doubt upset by that boy, that Auror from Ireland. They'd left not too long after that and Snape was certain that Shannon had ruined the evening for her. He wanted to ask but refrained, deciding that she'd bring it up if she wanted to confide in him.

Snape's irritation with the whole ridiculous conservation and McGonagall only grew when the stately woman miraculously appeared outside of his rooms, demanding to see Hermione.

"It's getting late," she explained with little remorse. "I'm here to show Hermione to the guest rooms that Albus asked me to prepare for her."

"Miss Granger was a student here for seven years and has spent a great deal of time since in the Tower's guest quarters," Snape said coolly. "I'm sure she is more than capable of finding her rooms when she is ready to retire."

"We've put her in a different wing this time," McGonagall explained determinedly. "It makes sense for me to escort her over there."

"You really didn't need to do that, Professor," Hermione finally spoke up from where she sat behind Snape who was looming in the doorway. "I'd never want you to have to go through all this trouble."

"Nonsense, Hermione, it's no trouble," McGonagall assured her. "I was on my rounds, anyway. There are some students still here over the holidays, you know."

Snape and Hermione exchanged a look before Snape turned back to McGonagall. "Give us a moment" was all the warning the older woman had before Snape unceremoniously slammed the door in her face.

When Hermione emerged a few minutes later -- very mussed, very disheveled and very bright-eyed -- McGonagall looked over her spectacles at her disapprovingly but said nothing as they headed toward the Gryffindor tower.

Hermione thought it was a touching, if completely unnecessary rescue on her behalf. She wasn't sure what McGonagall thought would happen if she hadn't appeared to drag her away from the dungeons but, given the Professor's tight-lipped expression and the number of times that McGonagall was known for raiding the Astronomy Tower in the spring, Hermione figured that it had a misguided -- and unneeded! -- attempt at safeguarding her virtue.

That thought alone was enough to re-ignite Hermione's earlier mirth and she almost collapsed on the bed in her guest chambers as she started laughing again, her amusement blatantly exacerbated by the fact that her guest room was only three doors away from McGonagall's rooms.

She was still amused by it all the next morning when she and Snape took breakfast in his rooms, something she knew Snape had arranged in some part to aggravate McGonagall and thwart her interference.

"It really is funny, you know," Hermione said as she drank her tea. "And I think she really means well. She could've done so much more if she'd really wanted to cause us trouble."

"Unfortunately -- I can't bring myself to say _fortunately_ even in this case -- the headmaster has given us his 'blessing,'" Snape said, his mouth curling in distaste as he formed the words. "Any more meddling on her part would have resulted in more meddling on _his_ part."

"It could be worse," Hermione reminded him. "It could be Mrs. Weasley looking over our shoulder at every turn."

Snape's distaste was even more pronounced as he answered. "True."

Hermione was silent for a moment, contemplating her toast with such ferocity that Snape paused to look at her strangely. When she noticed, she smiled guiltily and laid the toast on her plate. "Speaking of Molly Weasley..."

"Must we?"

"I have a question for you," Hermione continued, ignoring his snide interjection. He shot her an amused glance over his cup. "What are you doing for Christmas Eve?"

"The same thing I do every Christmas Eve, which is remain here at the school," Snape said in answer. "And what it does that have to do with Molly Weasley?"

"The Weasleys are having a big get-together at the Burrow for Christmas Eve," she slowly explained, watching closely for Snape's reaction to what she was saying. "I've been invited, of course."

"Of course," he snorted.

"...and I was hoping you'd come."

"You think that's a good idea?" he asked bluntly.

"Not particularly," she admitted, "but I'd like you to be there, anyway. I'd like to spend some of my Christmas Eve with you."

Snape sighed. "Hermione...there's a saying about discretion and valor. I hope you know it by now." He paused, not wanting to be misunderstood. "My presence will make things uncomfortable for you with Molly. You know that."

"I do, but I still want you to come," she told him resolutely. "Please? The headmaster has been invited as well and he's promised to attend."

Snape snorted again. "Yes, and that makes me even more likely to want to come."

Hermione smiled but her eyes were still cajoling. "Please, Severus?"

He regarded her steadily for a moment before returning his attention to his breakfast. "I'll think about it."

Her smile lit up her face. "Thank you," she told him before she took a big bite of her toast.

"I didn't say I'd go," he reminded her in warning.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "And that's exactly what you said about Wyatt's wedding and didn't we have a lovely time?"

He gave her an incredulous look. "No comment."

She chuckled, then took a sip of her tea. Before she could say anything else, though, the ornate mantel clock above Snape's fireplace began to chime and she finally noticed the time. "I'd stay and argue with you but I can't. I've got to go meet up with my Mum."

"Right now?" he frowned, glancing at the clock dial as Hermione rose to her feet.

"I'm afraid so," she said regretfully. "She's already livid that I got home from Peru only to come to Scotland for Wyatt's wedding. I wouldn't want to press my luck with her. Otherwise, Christmas at the Grangers will not be a happy one this year." She grimaced.

Snape nodded in amused sympathy. "Then go, by all means. We can't have _that_, after all."

"I'll see you in a few days," she promised.

Her mind was so far ahead of her actions that Hermione was already thinking about the conversation she was going to have with her mother and where they were going to shop and the phone call she was going to put into her grandmother that before she realized it, Snape was giving her a proper goodbye before he allowed her to slip away back to the Muggle world.

He tasted like hot, black coffee and the sweetness of the jam she'd had still clung to her tongue and she was suddenly so flummoxed that she wondered if she'd ever remember what she'd been on her way to do in the first place.

Maybe her mother could wait a little longer.

* * *

"...and thank _god_, Sophia decided that she can't bear to leave her new boyfriend over the holidays so your grandparents are going to France this year. I can't tell you how happy that makes me." Carolina Granger sat down a stack of boxes with an emphatic thud as she finished speaking, glancing around at her handiwork. The small spare bedroom was full of boxes, some of them bursting with holiday-themed things, ribbons and tinsel and little snowglobes all begging to be put on display.

In the middle of the mess sat Hermione, hands buried in a box of bows.

"I don't know why you're so hard on Aunt Sophia," she commented, her voice muffled since she was peering intently into the box she was organizing.

Carolina was back in the closet, pulling things down from the top shelf. "Because she's irresponsible? Irritating? Infuriating?" She stuck her head around the door to make eye contact with her daughter. "Do you see a pattern here?"

"You like words that begin with the letter "I"?" Hermione teased, trying to un-crush a horribly crushed taffeta bow.

"Watch yourself, young lady," Carolina warned as she emerged from the closet with another box which she sat down next to Hermione. "Here, sort this one, too."

She shot her mother an unhappy look, sighing. "I thought you said we were going shopping? And I distinctly remember you saying you were going to buy me lunch."

"Stop your complaining," her mother commanded as she started to open up the line of crates that were perched on the spare bed. "If we get this finished in time, I'll take you to that Moroccan place you love so much."

Hermione begrudgingly concentrated on helping her mother with her annual Christmas decoration sorting, a rather odious task she'd managed to miss out on several years running. Unfortunately, she'd hadn't been lucky enough to escape the tradition again this particular Christmas. It wasn't a very taxing chore but it was tedious and it was one of those times when the movements of her hands were so automatic that her mind could wander independent of her task.

They worked in companionable silence for awhile until Hermione stilled, laying aside the fragile glass figurine she'd been unwrapping. "Mum? Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, go ahead." Carolina didn't look up from the glassware she was inspecting.

"What do you want for me, most in the world?"

"For you to be happy, of course," came Carolina's constant, automatic reply. "To have the life you want. Why?"

Hermione idly twisted a piece of loose satin ribbon around her fingers. "What if -- what if something that made me happy wasn't something you necessarily liked?"

"Well," Carolina paused, as if thinking. "As long as it hasn't dangerous or illegal, I guess I'd have to accept it. I've accepted you being a witch and that is dangerous, so I'm sure there's probably little I couldn't handle at this point." She looked over at her daughter, curiosity written across her face. "Again, I ask why?"

"So you'd accept it? No matter what?" Hermione questioned, still fiddling with the frayed ribbon.

"Hermione, are you trying to tell me something?" Carolina's voice was laden with suspicion.

"No," her daughter assured her, tossing the ribbon into the wastebasket. "But I might be. Soon."

Carolina nodded. "Fair enough. Come on, help me take these dishes downstairs."

* * *

"I don't know how I'm going to tell them, Ginny," Hermione admitted quietly, her voice pitched low so that it would carry through the noise of the crowd in Diagon Alley.

Despite Carolina's promise, there hadn't been any Moroccan cuisine in store for Hermione because her mother had been called away to deal with an emergency at her dentistry office. With her own afternoon suddenly free, Hermione had asked Ginny to meet her for some last-minute shopping in Diagon Alley -- an idea that she'd shared with most of Britain's Wizarding population, if the crowds were any indication.

"I don't either," Ginny told her, looking disgruntled as they pushed through the impossible throng of people, both of them clutching bags and paper-wrapped parcels.

"It's not going to go well," Hermione pointed out sadly, tugging at her robes when they caught on the oversize package of a passer-by.

Ginny snorted. "That's the understatement of the year." They elbowed their way past the drooling little boys in front of the Quidditch shop, though Ginny's brown eyes did a bit of window-roving as they passed.

Hermione shook her head in mock-disapproval. "You think?" she muttered sarcastically.

"Oh, Hermione," Ginny was looking at her like she was a little, lost puppy. "You know it's going to be horrible."

"I know," sighed she. "I know."

The pair pushed their way into the bookshop, glad to see that the crowds were a little thinner there than they were in the more popular shops. Hermione was searching for an appropriate gift for Manuelito which she planned to send to him by owl-post. If only she could find a suitable children's book for a Quechua werewolf in a shop in London...

"When are you going to tell them?" Ginny whispered after few moments of quiet browsing, no longer interested in the brightly-colored spines.

"I don't know," Hermione frowned as she pulled a book from the shelf and began to flip through the pages. "Soon. Part of me wants to tell them as soon as possible, before Christmas, even. Then, another part of me..."

"...wants to have a nice Christmas?" Ginny finished, picking up an used collection of what Muggles referred to as fairy tales.

"Exactly."

"I wish I knew what to tell you, Hermione," she said as she discarded the fairy tale book for another, this one having a miniature moving dragon on its cover. "But I don't. I know how Harry and Ron are. It's not going to be pretty."

"I've also got my mum and dad to tell," Hermione reminded her. She was on her tiptoes, peering at the uppermost shelf of children's literature. "That's not going to be pretty, either."

"Well, we've got to figure it out soon," Ginny warned her, her voice sharp. "Or else my Mum will just spill it at a completely inopportune time and none of your planning will matter."

"You're right," Hermione sighed again as she settled back on her heels. She glanced around at all the shelves full of books, none of them to her satisfaction. "I don't think I'm going to find anything here."

Ginny nodded her agreement. "There aren't a lot of Magical books that will paint Werewolves in a good light."

Sadly, Hermione had to agree. "Maybe there are some Muggle ones. I'll owl Remus and ask if he knows of any." She stared straight ahead, mulling over her choices.

Ginny touched her arm lightly to get her attention. "You've got bigger problems, you know."

Hermione frowned at her. "I know." She sighed, shaking her head. "Gin, I think I'm going to go."

"What? Was it something I said?"

"No, no," she assured her. "There's just somewhere I want to stop before I go home and I don't want to be out too late."

"Where?" Ginny wanted to know, curious.

Hermione quickly checked to make sure all her packages were secure for Apparition.

"Church," she finally answered. "Thinking hasn't helped me so far. Maybe prayer will."

Ginny knew she wasn't talking about Manuelito's book.

* * *

_  
Author's Notes_: I'm almost too tired to write anything because I've been slaving to get this out to you guys. Whew! One thing, though -- several of you have emailed or reviewed with unhappy comments about me still referring to Snape as 'Snape' in 3rd person narration, thinking that I should now switch to 'Severus' or something. I'm sorry that bothers alot of you but I prefer to keep it Snape to keep the narration uniform. Changing to 'Severus' in part 23 after 22 parts of 'Snape' would make me feel horribly uncomfortable and I just couldn't write it, I'm sorry. Plus? So many extra letters to type, you know? 

Hope you enjoyed the update, please review if you feel like doing so.


	24. Everybody Finds Out

**Heart over mind : Part XXIV  
Everybody Finds Out **

----

In the end, it wasn't prayer that helped Hermione reach her decision as much as it was a desire to enjoy a peaceful Christmas after the turmoil she'd endured in the months leading up to it. It was the first Christmas since Voldemort's defeat and the utter chaotic euphoria that the Wizarding World -- Weasley clan included -- had brought to it was dazzling, a whirlwind of cheer and good feeling and celebrations that Hermione didn't want to ruin for her friends by unburdening her secrets on them.

This was the reason she gave herself for choosing to wait until after the holidays to confess to Harry and Ron about Snape, although she couldn't help but think that part of it was her own apprehension at the thought of what her friends' reactions would be. But not even self-doubt of her own bravery could sway her in the opposite direction and Hermione firmly pushed the matter of revelation out of her mind and concentrated on enjoying the holiday with her friends and family and Snape -- though not all at the same time.

That was another realization she'd come to and Snape was only too happy to remind her that his presence at the Weasley gathering would not be a good idea. And as much as she would've liked him to be there, she agreed with him. Instead, they'd made plans to see one another sometime late on Christmas Day, though she'd felt guilty about putting her family and friends first.

"I haven't actually celebrated Christmas in any manner in years," he'd told her in irritation as they spoke via the Floo a few nights before the eve in question. "Most likely, I wouldn't live up to whatever ghastly idea you have of proper Christmas spirit."

"Oh, I think I know better than to expect much," she'd returned dryly, although she'd surmised his point. "Very well. As long as you don't feel like I'm short-changing you."

There'd been a pause and Hermione had desperately wished that she could see his face more plainly in the magical flames. "I doubt I'll ever think that, Hermione," he'd finally said quietly before ending the conversation.

So the day of Christmas Eve dawned and Hermione found herself frowning down at the red-and-gold-colored box innocently sitting on her bed, untouched. It had arrived that morning, postmarked from France and undoubtedly from her aunt Sophia. The box had some designer's label on it so Hermione knew it was clothing but given her aunt's wicked sense of humor, she was a bit fearful of what it might contain, especially since Sophia had given her racy lingerie even _before_ she'd thought her niece might have a man in her life. Considering she vaguely knew that there a dark and dangerous wizard in the picture, Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to know what her dear aunt thought was a proper gift.

Deciding to leave the box until Christmas morning, Hermione turned away from it and busily began sorting through her clothes for something festive to wear with her robes to the Weasley bash. Ginny had kept her apprised of the party preparations and what had started as a family gathering had grown into such a production that she wondered if everyone she'd ever known had plans to stop the Burrow over the course of the evening. In fact, Ginny had also let her know that as an honorary Weasley, Molly expected her to arrive several hours early and help with any last-minute details that needed doing. Of course, Hermione had wondered how much of the message was more Ginny's hope for help and less Molly's order.

The young witch was in her bedroom, still engaged with the inevitable struggle with her hair, when she heard her father calling for her from downstairs.

"What, Dad?" she called, standing at the top of the staircase and peering down toward the foyer. It was something she'd never have done had her mother been around but Carolina had went out to finish up some shopping and so her daughter was free to lapse into a few lazy and ill-behaved habits that her father tolerated with fond indulgence.

"There's someone here to see you!" his voice floated back up the stairs and she guessed that since she couldn't see him in the foyer, she'd shown the guest into the study.

"I'll be right down," she called back, quickly dashing into her room to shed her wizarding robes. It was probably old Mrs. Gianni, one of the members of their church who always visited and brought gifts on Christmas Eve. While she and her mother adored the old woman, Will Granger has always felt uncomfortable in her presence since she was forever trying to persuade him to attend church with his wife and daughter.

A few minutes later, Hermione hurried down the stairs dressed in the skirt and blouse she'd been wearing under her robes, her hair still in a tangled, flyaway mess. She was already apologizing to Mrs. Gianni for her flustered appearance as she stepped into the room and her words came to abrupt halt when she saw who was actually awkwardly waiting for her in her father's study.

Despite their long years of friendship, rarely did Hermione have her best friends standing in the middle of her thoroughly Muggle home. Almost the entirety of their time together took place in some Wizarding locale -- Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, the Burrow -- so Hermione couldn't help the sense of incongruity that swept over her at seeing Harry and Ron waiting for her to come down the stairs.

"What are you two doing here?" she asked, clearly confused. "I'm not supposed to be at the Burrow for another hour!"

"We know," Harry said, lifting his eyes from where they'd been tracing random patterns on the carpet. He glanced quickly at Ron and then back to her. "We, uh, wanted to talk to you about something. Before you came."

"Really?" she asked, still confused, watching them closely. Her friends were definitely behaving strangely -- eyes downcast, fidgeting where they stood, hands shoved in their pockets along with their wands. She couldn't fathom what had them acting so oddly that would bring them to her door on Christmas Eve.

"Yes, really," Harry told her, his eyes still skating over her.

"So...? What it is?"

Harry glanced guiltily toward her father who was still standing at the study door, leaning against the doorjamb as he watched the scene unfold. "We were hoping we could talk to you...privately."

Hermione didn't have a chance to say anything before her father was speaking. "I need to go pick up some things, anyway," he told them, understandingly. "I'll be back in about an hour?"

When his daughter nodded her gratitude, he patted her on the arm, adding, "Don't forget that your mother will be home any minute now," before he tactfully retreated, leaving his daughter and her friends in peace.

Hermione didn't speak again until the door slammed shut behind Will as he exited the house. With the sound still ringing in the quiet, she spun around to face her friends. "So, now tell me -- what's wrong? I can tell something is or else you wouldn't be here."

It wasn't only their presence and their awkwardness that told her something was amiss. Harry was even more ashen than he usually was and Ron's ears were bright red even though his face had lost most of its color, like he'd had a terrible shock.

When neither of them seem inclined to answer her, Hermione crossed her arms and sighed dramatically. "I'm going to assume that nothing really terrible has happened because keeping me in suspense in such a case as that would be unbearably _cruel_ and _thoughtless_ of the two of you."

"We need to talk to you about something," Harry explained, stepping up and finally looking at her.

"You've already said that," she pointed out, impatient with her friends' theatrics. "Get to the point, please. I still have things to do before I can leave for the Burrow."

"We, uh, heard something today...something that we need to ask you about..." Harry's progress was slow but he was gaining momentum as he spoke. He'd also crossed his arms so that his position mirrored Hermione's. Ron stood a little behind him and to his side, back against the entertainment center and uncharacteristically silent. "We need to know if it's the truth or not. If we heard wrong or..."

Hermione could feel guilt flash across her face as her mind began to spiral toward the only thing she think of that Harry might have overheard. She was suddenly feeling very hot and stifled as her heartbeat thundered in her ears but she willed herself calm, praying that she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion and that there were other secrets, more innocent ones, that she might be keeping from her friends. "What did you hear?" she managed to ask but her voice was threatening to break on any word longer than one syllable.  
Harry glanced imploringly toward Ron but his friend offered no help, still silent and tight-lipped and disapproving, something terribly hurt brimming in his eyes.

The dark-haired boy swallowed and plowed on bravely, explaining, "We were helping get ready for tonight and we got back to the Burrow early...before Mrs. Weasley was expecting us. She was talking to Mr. Weasley and she said..."

"What, Harry?" Hermione questioned softly, fear creeping into her voice. Harry must've discerned it because his eyes shot up to meet hers, widening just a little.

"She said that she didn't know how long you could keep it a secret that you were involved with Snape but she was glad it seemed that you'd decided to wait until after the holidays to tell everyone," Harry finished, his voice strong but incredulous as he spilled the rest, his eyes never leaving Hermione's.

"She said that you were _involved_. With _Snape_," he repeated, as if to stress the importance of those particular facts. "_Romantically_."

"I heard you the first time," she snapped unconvincingly, only a token waspishness.

"At first, I thought she had to be mad," Harry continued, still gaining strength and animation. "I mean -- you, involved with _Snape_? I'd never heard a nuttier thing -- but then we ran into Ginny and...she told us to ask you and that's all she said. So, we're here. Asking."

"What do you want me to say?" Hermione asked, focused on Harry and the emotions rising in his eyes, the twitchiness in his body that reminded her of the way he readied for Quidditch matches or duels with the Dark Lord. He'd dropped his arms from across his chest and one hand was clenched into a fist.

"Is it true?" Ron's voice was a taut as his frame as he spoke for the first time, startling both Harry and Hermione as he entered the conversation. He sounded gravelly and rough, like he was barely managing to hold back some strong emotion. That tide of feeling in his eyes hit Hermione with such force that it left her stricken and made Harry step uncertainly toward her, as if he was no longer sure if he needed to be her confronter or her comforter. "Is what Mum said the truth? That you're...with Snape...and..."

Hermione drew upon that famed courage she was supposed to possess and held her head high even as she answered, even as she regretted that she wouldn't get the Christmas she'd hoped for by postponing this exact conversation. "Yes, Ron. It is. It's -- true. Se--Snape and I are---"

Ron jerked his hand up in a stopping motion that was so abrupt and unexpected that Hermione obeyed him. "I don't want to hear it," he stated, voice teetering on a growl. His eyes were still wet with pain and hurt but she could see anger lurking, waiting for its chance.

Harry didn't seemed so inclined. "But why?" he blurted out, his blatant bewilderment overpowering whatever else he might have been feeling.

"Why did I keep it a secret? Or why him?" Hermione snapped back, her ire no longer faked. She was angry, both at them and at herself. She'd thought herself prepared for this moment after the conversations she'd had with Craig who'd also been so very disapproving. But, at that moment, she realized that she'd been hoping that she was wrong and that somehow it wouldn't come to this -- to harsh words and anger and incredulity and blame and guilt and demands and explanations.

It had been a foolish and naive hope on her part and now she was paying the price for her foolhardy optimism.

"It's obvious why you kept it a secret," Ron shot back harshly, his pallor growing until he looked a sickly green with bitter reaction.

"Why him?" Harry asked, choosing the second option, still disbelieving but curbing his other emotions, trying to keep his voice level as he spoke. His green eyes, however, were bright with reaction, intense and questioning as they watched her face.

"I don't know, Harry," she sighed, exasperated. She refused to rely on the histrionic "Because I love him!" so popular in tawdry fiction even though its sentiment rang true. "Why do we care about anyone? It just is and I -- do. I care."

"It doesn't make any sense!" Harry exclaimed. "It's...it's..._Snape_!"

"I know that, Harry!" Hermione retorted. "You don't think this has been difficult for me to deal with, too? Ever since Seventh Year, I've been dealing with this, I've---"

"Seventh Year?" Ron gasped, looking even more horrified than he had a moment earlier.

"Yes, Seventh Year, Ron," she told him, cuttingly. "Or don't you remember? The hayam?"

Harry's green eyes widened again, until they were cartoonishly owlish behind the rim of his glasses. "Are you saying that...?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," she told him, glowering at the pair of them. "I've known for that long that I feel this way, that I...care for him and I've spent _years_ dreading this exact conversation with you two!"

"Well, you've certainly put it off long enough," Ron interjected meanly. "You let my mum do your dirty work."

"I was going to tell you," she said in her defense. "But I wanted to wait until after Christmas."

"So at least you and Mum agree on _that_," he sniped.

Hermione ignored him, turning back to Harry who was still looking at her with such an expression of disbelief that it was as if she were speaking Greek to him instead of English. "So I guess...since Mrs. Weasley said you were _involved_...that he...that Snape...he feels...?"

"The same," she finished for him, quietly, unable to keep the warmth out of her voice as she thought about the one incredible fact she'd never dreamed possible. "For so long, I thought there was no chance, that I'd just have to...live with it. But we stayed in touch and then..."

"I really don't want to hear this," Ron told her.

"Then what do you want to hear from me, Ron?" Hermione burst out, bordering on a shrillness that she despised but that Ron always brought out in her. "You're the one who came asking questions!"

"I wanted you to say that Mum was completely wrong about it!" he admitted, rather loudly -- so loudly that Harry winced at his volume.

"Well, I'm sorry but she wasn't and I'm not!"

"You should be sorry!" Ron told her, advancing toward her. She stood her ground and so did Harry, watching his friend warily as if he were ready to step in if need be. But Ron didn't come within reach of her, only moving closer but a few steps, color suddenly suffusing his face such a shade of red that Hermione dimly worried about his blood pressure. "You knew it would all come out eventually. How did you expect us to react? Did you think we would just be understanding of this insanity? That we'd give you our approval?" he scoffed harshly, the anger finally pouring out of him.

Hermione drew herself up again, tilting her head haughtily as she'd seen her nonna do so many times, looking down her nose at Ron as she suppressed her concern, her regret, her sadness and let her anger take rein. "I expected you to _understand_ that this is my life and I'll do whatever I bloody well please, Ron Weasley! I don't need your damn approval to do anything, ever, and if you had an inkling in that dim head of yours what friendship was, you'd understand that!"

Ron recoiled from her angry words, still furious himself, breathing harshly as they stared at one another. Harry was now an uneasy spectator, glancing between the two of them as he waited for the next outburst.

The sound of a car rumbling into the driveway drew Hermione's attention to the study's window. "It's my mother," she announced, her voice quiet and strange-sounding after her last exclamation. "I don't want to talk about this around her."

"I don't think I have anything else to say," Ron growled before Apparating out of her house with a resounding crack.

Harry gave her an inscrutable look and mumbled a tepid farewell before he was gone, too, leaving Hermione to stand alone in the silence, the terrible echo of their words ringing in her ears.

Carolina Granger had barely set foot into the house before her daughter had made up some excuse about needing to leave early and had disappeared along with them.

* * *

Just as he'd told Hermione, Snape treated Christmas Eve as he would've any night that he spent at Hogwarts during the school year. He'd eaten his meal in the Great Hall, lording over the few children who'd remained at the castle over the holidays and then he'd retired to his chambers, stacks of papers to mark and several parchments' worth of professional correspondence to return. The only concession that he'd made to the holiday was that no fire was lit in his personal laboratory; since he expected to have to endure holiday visits from the Headmaster and from Professor McGonagall on Christmas Eve and then both of them as well as Hermione on Christmas day, he saw no reason to start a project that would likely be ruined by -- mostly unwanted -- company.

He was just sitting down to answer the first of the correspondence when there was a knock at his chamber door. He glared at the door as if it were its fault that someone was knocking and he heavily rose to his feet, mentally preparing himself for Albus's traditional "You need to be more cheerful, it's Christmas, Severus" speech as he jerked the door open.

He'd expected to see Albus Dumbledore standing just outside his chambers.

He hadn't expected that his visitor would be a very pale and shaken Hermione Granger.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, more out of surprise than harshness. It was lucky, he supposed, that Hermione had rarely reacted to his acerbic tone.

"I was wondering if I could come in?" she asked neutrally, something about her eyes suggesting distraction -- or furtiveness. Snape frowned.

"Of course," he nodded, stepping back to let her enter his chambers. He closed the serpentine door behind her and watched narrowly as she loitered in the center of the sitting room, arms crossed and hugged close to her. "Now will you tell me what you're doing here?"

Hermione turned to look at him and he could see that she was troubled, much too serious and somber compared to the cheerful young woman he'd seen through the Floo fire only two days before.

"I...ah...needed to get out of the house," she confessed softly. "I needed a...safe place."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I thought you had a party to attend at the Weasleys' this evening."

She exhaled, a quiet sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "I did but I don't think they'll be thrilled with me if I show up."

"I think they'll be less than thrilled if you don't," he countered. "I doubt Potter or the Weasleys will consider the night complete without you there." He snorted. "And Potter and you friend Weasley haven't been able to do anything more complicated than feed themselves in the last decade or so without you there to hold their hands."

"Not after what happened just a little bit ago." Hermione sighed again and dropped down into the extra chair that was wedged between the fireplace and the writing desk -- the chair she'd been claiming as 'hers' over the past several visits.

She gave him a look that spoke of the dread and shock and sadness he'd seen in her posture. "Harry and Ron...they know -- about us, I mean. And we just had a lovely little chat about it, too," she added dryly, a touch of grim humor in her voice.

"Ah." Suddenly, everything about the scene made perfect sense to him. "And I'm assuming it wasn't your idea for them to know."

Hermione snorted. "Ah, no. At least, not tonight. I'd decided to hold off until after Christmas. They found out through Mrs. Weasley."

Snape scowled. "I was wondering how long she'd be able to keep her mouth shut. I see I gave her too much credit."

She waved a dismissive hand. "It wasn't her fault, really," she explained. "They overheard her talking with Mr. Weasley." Hermione leaned back in the chair, flicking her eyes up to catch Snape's. "I really wanted this to be a pleasant Christmas."

"I know," he said quietly. He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, his fingers just brushing against the skin bared at gathered neckline of her blouse. "I am sorry."

Hermione settled back against the chair more comfortably, closing her eyes and taking another deep breath. Snape recognized it as one of her many coping tactics, taking time to let her mind process and start to make decisions. "So am I," she told him as she opened her eyes to look up at him. "But it can't be helped now. It does mean that my plans have changed a bit, though."

"Oh?"

"Well, I'm definitely not going to the Weasleys' tonight," she explained resolutely, sensibly. "I'm certain there'd be a scene and, well...it wouldn't be a very good idea tonight."

"I agree," Snape admitted, letting his hand linger a moment longer before he withdrew it.

"And I can't go home because then I'd have to explain to my mother why I'm not at the Weasleys," she added. Hermione gave him a hopeful look. "I was thinking that maybe..."

"Maybe what?" he echoed, faintly teasing. "Maybe you could stay here?"

"That was the plan, yes," she murmured, smiling a little at his tone. "If you don't mind, of course."

"I already warned you that I'm not one for holiday spirit or festivity."

"I'm not really all that festive myself tonight," Hermione laughed. "I'm more in the market for a place to lay low."

"And you want to do it here?"

"No better place to hide than a dungeon," she explained. "Especially one with you in it. No offense, of course." There was a lightness in her eyes that softened her words.

"I suppose I can find something for you to do so you won't bother me too much," he told her mock-seriously, turning away from the blinding gratitude on her face. He couldn't help but feel out of his depth when he was reminded of how much _that_ meant to him -- her happiness, her gratitude. Snape busied himself with skirting around her and the fireplace, reclaiming the seat behind his cluttered desk.

"How nice of you," she retorted, using her own brand of mild sarcasm to cover up the extent of her relief. "It's never a visit with you if I don't have to work."

"I always warned you that your officiousness would lead you to bad ends," he replied, half-distracted as he was rummaging through the stacks of parchments. He heard her smother a chuckle and added, "I should be able to trust you with the marking of some Second Year examinations, now shouldn't I?"

"I should be able to manage them," she promised him, drawing her legs under her and settling into her chair more comfortably. "Now, hand them over, Professor, before I change my mind about helping you."

Papers were shuffled, quills and ink handed out; it only took a few minutes before they were both settled and quietly distracted by their work. Snape had spared a moment of disconcertion at the way Hermione precariously perched her bottle of ink on the arm of the chair in a way that spoke of an imminent spillage but she'd assured him that she had years of practice with just such arrangements. He'd acquiesced but couldn't help but send apprehensive looks the bottle's way whenever he glanced up from his work.

Snape found it novel the easy way that they fell into these kinds of moments, even more so since Halloween. He noticed how easily he became used to her steady presence in his chambers, the way he was beginning to rely on it, was heartened by the mere fact that she was near. He'd fought against becoming used to it, though he'd failed spectacularly; he was already dreading the first of the year when she'd once again be thousands of miles away and letters would be their only form of communication. While Snape had missed her in the traditional sense during some of their earlier separations, he'd never quite become accustomed to her companionship before. He knew that it would make the inevitable even more difficult.

Hermione laughed quietly, breaking the comfortable silence. Snape glanced up at her inquisitively.

"What are you teaching these children, Severus?" she asked slyly, still amused by whatever one of the students had written. "Some of them have the most _creative_ ideas about potions-making."

Snape snorted. "Any such 'creative' idea is no fault of mine," he told her. "More of the fault of lazy study habits and their inability to show sufficient effort at anything not related to Quidditch or practical jokes."

That sparked Hermione to mount an enthusiastic defense of both Quidditch and practical jokes, even though Snape knew that she had little love for either. The conversation flowed from there, moving from subject to subject as the tide of thought took them. Snape could see that Hermione was finally starting to put whatever unpleasant things her friends had said behind her as she grew more and more animated, losing the shades of sadness that had hinted about her for the first part of the evening.

As they conversed, Snape was again struck by their rapport, the ease between them; he had rarely found himself in 'easy' relationships in the past and the fact it was so when it came to Hermione was surprising. It was frightening how they seemed to fit together, how easy he found it to talk to her, to read the expressions that danced across her face -- to understand her. And he could tell that she could do the same when it came to him -- something else that was a bit frightening.

"Have you received any Christmas presents yet?" she asked later in the evening. The papers were put away and they were both seated by the fire, a tea service spread out between them.

"The House Elves have been instructed to hold all such packages until Christmas morning," he told her. "While I could've arranged differently, I chose not to."

"So there's nothing I can do to entice you to indulge in a little holiday spirit, then, hmm?" she asked. "From what I've seen, gifts are the fastest way to make one's self feel merry."

"Not unless you have something -- literally -- up your sleeve," he replied firmly.

"Sorry but no," Hermione apologized, lifting her arms to show that her sleeves were indeed empty. "I do have something for you, it's just back at my house. I was planning to bring it tomorrow."

"Then that can be one part of your plans that needn't change," Snape said, taking a drink of his tea.

"Speaking of Christmas gifts," she began slyly. "Any chance I can get the story out of you about _your_ Idol of Mnemosyne?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "No."

Hermione shrugged. "Ah, well. I guess it's more intriguing as a mystery, anyway."

Snape set down his teacup. "If you're so interested in clearing up mysteries, how about we discuss that charming bracelet you wear so often?"

She held up her wrist again, showing up the gold bracelet that McGonagall had given her for Christmas the year before. "You mean this? It was a gift."

"That answer begs the question from who," he pointed out.

Hermione mirrored his raised-eyebrow expression. "Is that jealousy I detect?"

"Of course not," Snape replied quickly. "I was merely...interested in the bracelet's origin."

"I see," she said, trying not to grin. "Well, in the interests of your interest, it was a gift from Professor McGonagall. It's a bit of a private joke about my Animagus training."

"And your form?" Snape guessed.

"That, too."

Snape had a wicked look in his eyes. "Are you ever going to let anyone other than Professor McGonagall _see_ you in your Animagus form?"

"And Manuelito," she added.

"Who is usually a small, fanged werewolf at the time," he reminded her.

"True," she conceded, grinning. "And the answer is no. At least, not any time soon."

"It appears as if we all have secrets then," he told her smugly.

"Ah ha ha, how clever you are," she grumbled dryly, though not at all offended. "I can take NO for an answer, you know."

"You can?"

Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly and reached for another biscuit.

Satisfied that the question of his past was put aside for the moment, Snape glanced at the clock and dared to bring the conversation around to events of the evening. "What time is your mother expecting you back?"

A little of the good humor faded from her face. "Midnight. In time for Mass." She sighed and set aside the biscuit, untouched. "I think it's time I start thinking about how I'm going to break the news to my parents." She regarded him quietly for a moment. "I'd like you to meet them. Eventually. But I definitely need to tell them soon."

"Or else the curse of Molly Weasley may strike with them as well?"

"Partly," she admitted. "But also because...I feel deceptive, not telling them. We've always had an open relationship and I know they won't be happy that I've kept quiet about it at all."

"Lucky that your father's a Muggle," Snape observed dryly. "I won't have to worry about an unexpected visit, at least."

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "Severus, the last person you have to worry about is my father. He's a very calm, rational sort. He'll accept it rather easily, I think. In my family, it's my mother you have to worry about."

"Is she all that bad?" he inquired mildly.

"Where do you think I get it from?" she returned. "And I have my father's blood and calming influence to balance it out."

"Heaven, help me, then," he declared, hiding his own smile behind his teacup as Hermione took the cue to act suitably affronted.

Just as she'd finished with her teasing -- "Should I take your reaction as an indication of how you really feel about me?" -- they were interrupted by a rather long and rather loud knock at Snape's chamber door.

Hermione started, surprised. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"I wasn't expecting you," he reminded her as he stood. Instead of opening the door to let the unknown person into his rooms, Snape cracked the door and stepped out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him.

He was surprised to find Dumbledore outside, dressed in sickeningly festive robes of green and red and gold. "Is something wrong?" he asked without preamble.

"Not at all," the headmaster assured him. "I'm was actually just wondering if you'd seen Miss Granger this evening? These two young men are looking for her and have reason to believe that she might be here."

Snape looked in the direction that Dumbledore had indicated and noticed Potter and Weasley standing a little further down the hall, watching him warily. At Dumbledore's insistence, they moved closer, both of them still eyeing Snape with the kind disgusted fascination people usually reserved for the more gruesome specimen jars he sometimes kept in his office.

"Potter," he sneered in greeting. "Weasley."

They just stared at him, tight-jawed and defiant, much the same way they'd faced him across the classroom during their years as his pupils. Potter's feelings were writ visibly across his face, shouting his confusion, his unease, his guilt. Weasley was a little less easy to read but his awkwardness was apparent and his skin ashen except for irregular blotches of color blotting his face.

"Is Hermione here?" Potter managed to choke out.

A cutting reply was on the edge of Snape's tongue but Dumbledore must have sensed it because he shot his subordinate a quelling look. "One of the House Elves informed us that you had company, Severus," he revealed.

"Wait here," he ordered the trio before ducking back into his chambers. Hermione looked up from her tea, plainly curious. "Potter and Weasley are outside with the headmaster," he told her. "Looking for you."

"They are?" she echoed, visibly alarmed.

Snape nodded. "We can send them away if you don't want to deal with them tonight."

"No, I'll...see what they want," she said and rose to her feet, crossing to where he stood by the closed door. Snape nodded again and ushered her out into the hall, a light hand resting on her back, both for support and for guidance. She was suddenly looking a little peaked herself and he felt some very irrational but very welcome anger surge up in him, directed toward the idiots she called friends.

Once in the suddenly-crowded hallway, Hermione immediately turned her attention to her friends. "What do you want?" she asked them, only a hint of sharpness to her voice.

Snape watched Potter's eyes bounced from Hermione back to where he stood behind her, hand still resting lightly on her back, so close that they were almost touching. The way Potter's eyes narrowed, he could tell the boy thought he was doing it simply to irk him but he wasn't, although the fact that it obviously angered him and Weasley left him in no hurry to move away from her.

"We, uh, wanted to talk to you," Potter began tentatively.

"I thought we did enough of that earlier today."

"And we wanted to apologize," he plowed on, staring at his shoes as if he couldn't bear to make eye contact with his friend. "We didn't...we shouldn't have...we're sorry about earlier, Hermione."

Hermione arched an eyebrow and looked between him and Weasley. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, we are!" Weasley burst out, his ears turning red. He, too, couldn't quite manage to look his friend in the face. "We, ah...we told Mum what happened. She wanted to know why you didn't show up at the Burrow like you were supposed to."

"She basically told us not to come back if we didn't find you and apologize and bring you back with us," Potter admitted, embarrassed. "She had some, um, choice words about how badly we treated you."

It was surprising to Snape that Molly Weasley of all people would condemn the Boy Who Lived and his faithful sidekick for disapproving of Snape but he was willing to believe that perhaps the witch had more feeling for Hermione than he'd originally thought.

"They were quite besides themselves with worry when I stumbled upon them," Dumbledore added, entering the conversation. "Apparently, they'd looked everywhere for you."

"Including Ireland," Weasley admitted sheepishly. "Thought maybe you'd went to visit that daft American friend of yours. Or that Craig bloke."

Hermione frowned a little but her expression was unreadable. "I wouldn't have gone to Craig. He reacted almost as badly to the news as you did."

Potter sent another uncomfortable glance toward Snape before daring to focus on Hermione. "Look, Hermione...just...give us a chance, alright? Just...come to the party tonight and have Christmas with us. We can hold off everything else until after the holidays, like you planned originally."

"And after?" she asked. "What happens then? You put up with me tonight to make Mrs. Weasley happy and tomorrow, it's back to the way it was this afternoon?"

"No!" they both said in unison.

Weasley was the one who continued. "Listen...I'm not saying I'm any more thrilled about all this" -- he waved a hand toward Hermione and Snape -- "than I was this afternoon but...I'm always gonna be your friend, Hermione. But I didn't act like it this afternoon and...well..." he trailed off, embarrassed.

An awkward silence fell over them until Snape eventually addressed Hermione quietly. "It seems your plans were simply delayed, not canceled." When she looked at him confusedly, he clarified. "You can have your pleasant Christmas after all."

"I don't know..."

"I think it would be good of you to give these boys a chance to make their mistakes up to you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said gently. "And I know that there are several other people at the Burrow who want to see you. Molly. Miss Weasley. Remus, among others."

Hermione turned away from her audience -- Potter, Weasley, Dumbledore -- to face Snape, looking up at him with concerned dark eyes. "What do you think?"

He could read what she was really asking in her eyes, questions about them and her friends, about the future. Despite the onlookers, Snape didn't hesitate to gently grasp her arms reassuringly, to answer her. "I think you should go and give the idiots a chance. Even if they don't deserve it."

There was a squawk of indignation -- probably Weasley, Snape decided -- but it was quickly muffled. Hermione rolled her eyes in fond exasperation and smiled tenuously. "Are you sure? After I showed up and interrupted your evening, I hate to just leave again..."

"It's fine, Hermione." he assured him, also fond and exasperated.

Her smile strengthened and he was almost dazzled by the warmth in it. "I feel like I'm always short-changing you," she murmured.

"Go," he commanded softly, tightening his fingers against her skin briefly before releasing her, stepping back.

Potter and Weasley were ill at ease, torn once again between fascination and revulsion; Dumbledore was bright and cheerful and twinkling; and Hermione was pink-cheeked and bright-eyed as she stepped away from him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"As planned," he added, his own face still stern in ways that she knew to ignore.

"Goodnight, Severus," Dumbledore said, twinkling at him. Then he turned to the trio who stood together in awkward, embarrassed silence.

"Come now, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley," he announced, sweeping them along the hall with outstretched arms and his softly persuasive one-sided conversation. "The night is no longer young and we still have a great deal of celebrating to do. Molly has promised me that she'll have all manner of good things to eat waiting on us and I, for once, can't wait to see what Arthur's new Muggle contraption does. He swears that it's something along the same lines as those batteries he's so fond of, but..."

Snape watched as they disappeared down the long corridor, the sounds of Dumbledore's voice fading away as they moved toward the stairs that would lead them from the dungeons. The last thing he saw was Potter laying a tentative hand on Hermione's arm to help guide her through the dimly lit corridor.

Nodding to himself, he disappeared back into his chambers, shutting the serpentine door against the sudden silence.

* * *

The night was bright and crisp when Hermione finally made it to the front of her mother's church after the midnight services. She'd missed it due to her late arrival at the Burrow and the delay it had caused in some of the gift-exchanging festivities but she'd slipped away in time to meet her mother at the church door, Carolina one of the last of the crowd to exit into the biting air of the early Christmas morning.

"I was wondering when you were going to show," her mother said in greeting when she saw her daughter shivering outside of the church, her robes thrown over her arm to disguise them from Muggle passers-by.

"I'm sorry. Things ran a bit late," Hermione told her sincerely.

Carolina gave her a strange look but it quickly softened. "It's fine, Hermione. I understand." She thrust something dark and bulky at her daughter which Hermione took, only to realize that it was her Muggle coat. "I figured you'd need it here," Carolina explained hastily, relieving her of her wizarding robes so that she could shrug into her coat.

Hermione sighed appreciatively. "Thanks, Mama," she told her, smiling.

"Do you want to go in before we leave?" Carolina asked, pointing to the church.

Her daughter shook her head. "I was just here a few days ago. I'll stop by tomorrow before I go to Hogwarts."

Carolina nodded. "Well, then let's get home. Your father's waiting and he's probably shaking his presents apart trying to figure out what they are."

Hermione nodded and fell in step with her mother as they walked the familiar path from their church to their home. The mention of Hogwarts had reminded Hermione of Snape and of the confession that loomed ahead of her. Now that Harry and Ron knew -- along with Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and a handful of others -- she knew she couldn't put off telling her parents any longer.

"Mum..." she began uncertainly, ending the meditative silence.

Carolina glanced over at her. "Yes?"

She sighed. "Remember what we were talking about the other day? About how I might have something to tell you, something you might not like?"

She nodded. "I remember."

Hermione's feet stilled as she braced her courage. "I think...I think it's time I told you."

Carolina slowed as well, turning back to look at her serious-faced daughter. She stepped closer to her daughter and slung an arm over her shoulder, pulling her along. "I think," Carolina began, "that'll keep a few days longer. I think you've had enough emotional upheavals for the day. Don't you?"

"How did you...? She was surprised and she glanced at her mother, begging for answers.

Carolina's eyes were warm and soft, echoes of nonna Rosalia in her gentle expression. "Do you think I really couldn't tell you were upset when you left this afternoon?" she chided. "I could. And I can tell now that you feel better."

She squeezed Hermione's shoulders where her arm still lay around them in an affectionate one-armed hug. "It's Christmas, cara. No need to bare your soul tonight. Just...be happy and remember that that's all I ever want for you. _Capice_?"

"_Bene_," she laughingly agreed. "It can wait."

"Yes, it can," Carolina declared. "Happy Christmas, Hermione."

"Happy Christmas, Mama," Hermione returned, looking up at the sky from her mother's glowing face. She threaded her arm around her mother, mimicking Carolina's hold on her.

"Happy Christmas."

----

_Author's Notes_: Yes, yes, yes. I'm terribly lazy! I'd promise to write quicker next time but I'd probably be lying. Sorry!

Anyway, allow me to answer a few questions from the last part: many readers seemed confused about McGonagall and for that I apologize. I wasn't trying to paint her as being disapproving of Snape and Hermione as much as she was very proper -- which meant that what she didn't approve of was two unmarried former students of hers closeted away together late into the evening. By coming to take Hermione up to her room, she was appointing herself an unofficial chaperone. I'm sorry that wasn't clearer. Also, a few people mentioned that I had Hermione buying Manuelito two Christmas gifts which isn't exactly true. As I hoped was clear from the letters, Manuelito is Hermione's pet project and she wants to do whatever she can to help him; the books were more teaching aids than Christmas presents for the little guy.

Thanks for reading and extra special thanks to beta-goddess **Kel** who did the beta work on this part.

If you are so inclined, leave a review.


	25. Understanding me, understanding you

**Heart over mind : Part XXIV  
Understanding me, understanding you**

Christmas day came too early for Hermione Granger. After the emotional day she'd had the day before and the late hours she'd kept on Christmas Eve, she was far from ready to stir from her bed when Carolina knocked on her bedroom door, announcing breakfast and threatening bodily harm if Hermione didn't present herself in a timely manner.

As she dragged herself from bed, squinting sleepy eyes about as she tried to locate her bathrobe, Hermione was thankful for small blessings such as the fact that she only needed to don said robe in order to be presentable enough for their Christmas breakfast. Unlike the year before when her grandparents had been visiting, the usual Granger Christmas morning -- as few and far between as they'd grown since her acceptance at Hogwarts -- were relaxed affairs. After a light breakfast, they would amble, mugs in hand, to sit by the tree and dispense gifts, everyone still in their bedclothes and with little plan to change out of them. This year, Hermione knew that she would be the first to make herself presentable since she was heading to Hogwarts early that afternoon.

After sliding a toothbrush over her teeth by natural, ingrained habit, Hermione caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink and she paused to rub at the shadows under her eyes, uncertain if the bruised-looking skin was a result of her late night or smudged mascara. Her night had been much later than she'd originally planned but it hadn't been much of a surprise -- not after the turn of events that had preceded it. By the time she'd arrived at the Burrow for the Weasleys' party, she was several hours behind schedule and the house had been lit with merriment, a merriment that Hermione had feigned for the most part. Although Harry and Ron had behaved admirably for the remainder of the evening, they'd done so mostly by staying as far away from her as possible and Ginny had followed Harry's example, though she kept throwing guilty glances Hermione's way every time she thought to.

Given such a state of things, Hermione had originally doubted that she'd manage an hour, let alone more; but she'd been lucky enough to have an ace in her sleeve in the form of Remus Lupin, who'd found her not long after her arrival and had made it his mission to be her constant companion for the night. Between Lupin's camaraderie and Dumbledore's gracious attention, Hermione had been distracted enough by their company to last until it had been time to exchange gifts. Harry and Ron and Ginny had approached her en masse, bearing gifts, and their awkward shyness and painful embarrassment as they'd handed over the brightly-wrapped packages had reminded her of the ways they'd acted toward her in the wake of arguments in their school days and she'd felt her first stirrings of hope since they'd come looking for her at Hogwarts. The tension had eased a little after that and something that resembled normalcy had almost crept upon them.

Hermione was thoughtful, pondering her hopes and their realities, all through Christmas breakfast, a fact that earned her a steady diet of odd looks from Carolina as they ate. As always, her father was subtler, less easily goaded into reaction and if he noticed his daughter's pensive silence, he didn't acknowledge it.

She and her mother were in the middle of clearing away the dishes when their phone rang unexpectedly.

Carolina glared in the direction of the study where the phone's shrill bell sounded. "Who calls this early on Christmas?" she muttered to herself, shaking her head in disapproval. "Hermione? Could you get that for me?"

Hermione nodded and hurried through the kitchen and dining room, grabbing the phone just before she fancied it was about to stop its ringing. "Granger residence."

"Ah, wonderful!" purred a melodic feminine voice, strongly resembling her mother's. "Just who I wanted to speak to! Merry Christmas, Hermione!"

"Aunt Sophia," Hermione smiled, relaxing into the conversation and a nearby chair. "Happy Christmas to you."

Sophia's laugh trailed through the receiver. "Have my presents for you arrived yet?"

"Yes!" Hermione said. "They arrived yesterday, in fact. We didn't expect them so early."

"You mean, on time?" Sophia laughed again. "Your nonna, she reminded me to mail them this year, so they wouldn't arrive after New Year's again! Have you opened yours yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Good! Make sure you don't open yours in front of Carolina. She'll have my head, for sure, cara!"

Hermione could imagine the naughty look on her aunt's face as she issued her warning. "I'll make sure to open it in private."

"Perfect! You are a good girl, Hermione, the best." Sophia paused, taking a deep breath that was audible to her niece through their phone connection. "Speaking of your nonna...I admit I wanted to speak to you about something. How is your dark, mysterious wizard?"

Hermione shook her head. "That's what you wanted to speak to me about?" she asked. "He's...fine, by the way."

"I'm glad to hear it...what I wanted to tell you is that...your nonna and I had a discussion last night, over dinner. You happened to come up in conversation and..."

"And...?"

"I -- maybe -- mentioned you had written me while you were Peru. Mama, she wanted to know what about. Me, I hint. Your nonna, she guesses. So I -- maybe -- I told her the story, about your wizard."

"You didn't!?"

"I'm afraid so, cara. I wanted to warn you that if you haven't told Carolina, you might want to do that. Before Mama does."

Hermione was glaring at the phone, trying to silently communicate her anger through it. "You did it on purpose, Aunt Sophia," she hissed.

"I swear it was an accident," she assured her. "But you do need to tell her -- your mama, I mean. Carolina will have to be told eventually and well, you know nonna..."

"What did she say?" Hermione hated to ask.

"What, your nonna? She was pleased! Glad you weren't as much like Carolina as she'd always feared."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself at the cheer in her aunt's voice. "I hate you, you know."

"Nonsense," Sophia laughed. "I'm your favorite aunt! Now, wish me Merry Christmas again, give my love to your father and, yes, even your mother and go open your presents. The one from me, in private, of course!"

Hermione grudgingly complied just as her mother was entering the room, demanding to know who'd been on the phone.

"Aunt Sophia," she informed her.

"Oh, good god, what did she want this early in the morning?" Carolina moaned. "Never mind. It's time to open presents. Your father's waiting and his fingers are getting itchy. I believe he's figured out about the golf clubs."

Will had, in fact, figured out that his wife's gift to him were golf clubs but he was pleased nonetheless. Both of her parents were thrilled with the Peruvian-themed gifts that Hermione had brought back with her from South America and she was glad -- again -- that she'd had Marisol help her with her purchases.

When the round of gift-giving reached her own hands, Hermione was surprised and left quite speechless with the pair of presents her parents presented her: a digital _Muggle_ camera and a magical one to match.

"Well, if you have to go halfway around the world, you might as well take pictures," Carolina said, smiling. "This way, when you go see regular -- Muggle, I mean -- things, you can take pictures to share with us, you know, in a Muggly -- is that even a word? -- manner."

"Ginny purchased the magical one for us," Will added. "And all the extras you'd need for it. Your mother was the one who thought of the extra memory storage for the digital one, though."

The thought behind such a gift was touching and Hermione actually had to blink back tears for a moment. Sometimes she doubted her parents' true acceptance of the magical part of her life; she knew deep down that her mother certainly saw it something that continually took her daughter away from her. But at other times the Grangers would prove how much they really understood and it meant a great deal to her when they went to extraordinary lengths to show her.

Between her conversation with Sophia and her feelings toward her parents' gifts, the rest of Christmas morning was a contemplative one for Hermione. Carolina must have noticed because, as morning dragged toward afternoon and Hermione went upstairs to dress, her mother followed her.

"You look nice," her mother said, nodding toward her reflection in the mirror. She was hovering in the open door, watching Hermione search through her jewelry box for a pair of a certain pair of earrings. "The blue looks good on you."

"Thank you," she said in reply, still using one finger to sift through the contents of the velvet-lined box. When her mother made no signs of leaving, she looked up. "Yes?"

"I noticed you seemed preoccupied this morning," she admitted. "Thought maybe you needed to talk...needed to get something off your chest."

Hermione paused, head bowed toward the jewelry box. "I thought you said it would be better to let it rest a few days. That's what you said last night."

"Not if it's bothering you," Carolina told her, stepping into the room and closing the door quietly behind her. "I just meant it could wait until the time was right but if now is the time..."

"No," Hermione said hastily. "It's not. I mean, I'm supposed to be at Hogwarts soon."

Carolina watched her daughter for a moment, eyes sweeping from her head to her toes, over her slightly tamed hair and festive blue dress, the string of pearls at her throat and the heel of her sensible heels. She sighed. "If you think it can wait, it can wait."

Hermione released the breath she'd been holding. "Thanks, Mama."

"But if it's important, you _will_ have to tell me eventually," Carolina said in a steely voice.

"I know," Hermione said. "And I will. I promise."

Carolina nodded. "Fine. Have a good time at Hogwarts." Her mother paused and slipped the pearl drop earrings she'd been wearing from her ears. "Here. Wear these and stop looking for those studs." She dropped them into her palm.

As Carolina turned to leave her daughter's room, Hermione stepped forward. "Mum?"

"Yes?"

Hermione was slipping one of the earrings onto her ear. "Tonight. I'll tell you and dad tonight. I swear."

* * *

No matter how much the world changed around him, Snape's Christmases seemed to follow the same tired pattern year after year -- at least where Dumbledore was concerned. Christmas morning again saw the headmaster paying Snape his customary holiday visit where he tried to cajole him into opening his presents, partaking of cheer and joining them in the Great Hall for whatever inane festivities they had planned for the day. And, like usual, Snape glowered and declined, though there was less heat in his acerbic answers than in years past.

"Well, I think I'll leave you to your day," Dumbledore said as he rose to leave after a refreshingly short visitation. "From what I understand you have plans of your own this afternoon."

Snape's eyebrow rose, waiting for the rest of what the old wizard had to say on the matter. "You are correct," he said, inclining in his head in polite dismissal.

"Tell Miss Granger "Happy Christmas" for me," Dumbledore asked, eyes merry and mischievous. "I have a feeling that I won't get a chance to see her myself."

"Of course," Snape agreed, pointedly glancing toward the door. "I'll make it a priority, I assure you."

For all the headmaster's feigned innocence, Snape doubted that he'd have to convey the old wizard's sentiments to Hermione once she arrived; he was certain that Dumbledore would find a reason to interrupt them at least once over the course of the evening.

The only highlight of Dumbledore's visit had been his vague assurances that Hermione hadn't suffered too greatly at the hands of her so-called friends at the Weasley holiday fete. He had been concerned that even after their apology -- such as it was -- that Potter and Weasley would not be able to keep their promises or remember that a lifetime of putting up with their stupidity should entitle Hermione a chance at forgiveness.

Although he trusted Dumbledore's evaluation of the evening, Snape still planned to draw his own conclusions on the other matter. He also planned to disabuse Hermione of the guilt he'd seen in her the night before over her hasty arrival and departure.

If all things in the world were equal, which Snape supposed Hermione liked to believe they were, then perhaps someone could argue that Hermione sometimes, as she put it, "short-changed" him. But that person wouldn't be Snape and the world, as Snape knew intimately, was far from being one of equality.

Snape had always considered himself to be nauseatingly pragmatic about romance -- when he wasn't being much too intelligent to ignore it completely. Nothing about their situation was enviable and, despite Hermione's interpretations of her actions, Snape knew that she was in a very uncomfortable position when it came to being involved with him, a fact that the night before had proved perfectly. No one would question why _he_ wanted to be involved with a smart, passionate young woman but it was a inquiry he suspected Hermione would face --or had faced -- numerous times.

At the moment, things between them were -- rushed; he understood that plainly. With Hermione studying in Peru and with him having no desire to abandon his life to follow her there, their time together was constantly compressed, squeezed in between family, friends, and other social commitments -- hers, since he had no commitment on him but work and the few friendships he managed to maintain. It was a holding pattern that he accepted since there was nothing else to do; they had no way sensible way to change it. If he actually considered himself slighted, it would be more contributable to some strange infection of his mental faculty than to Hermione's actions.

And, just as he knew he tended toward pragmatism in romance, he also tended toward selfishness; Snape would do what pleased him, insofar as he could, when it pleased him. What pleased him at the moment was to spend what time he could with Hermione â€" so he did.

At just the time that they'd agreed upon, Snape heard the telltale rap at the entrance of his chambers. He spelled the door to open and in burst Hermione, bristling with holiday spirit and pink-cheeked from the cold. Her arms were laden with packages, which she dropped onto the first available flat surface. "Happy Christmas!" she said in greeting. "How was your morning?"

"Peaceful, for the most part," he answered. "Yours?"

Hermione paused in unwinding her striped scarf from around her neck. "It was...nice," she finally said as she resumed her task of unbundling herself. "My aunt Sophia called and gave me a bit of a fright but everything will be settled by the end of the day.

He must have looked curious because she added, "I'll tell you later, it's not very important at the moment," as she finished pulling off her heavy winter robes. Once they, along with her scarf and gloves, were set aside, she ran a quick hand over her hair before she claimed her stack of packages. Snape watched it all in quiet amusement.

Hermione headed toward him, clutching the brightly wrapped boxes. "I believe we have presents to exchange," she said.

Snape gave her a condescending look. "I believe you are particularly taken with the material aspects of this holiday."

"I'm giving as well as receiving," she reminded him, shaking her packages at him in emphasis. "I think that makes me properly in line with the spirit of the season."

He snorted. "If you insist," he said, rising from his seat. "Let me fetch yours, then."

As he extracted Hermione's gifts from where he'd left them for safekeeping, he heard the sounds of Hermione moving around behind him, the telltale tinkle of china telling him that she was helping herself to the repast laid out by the House Elves just before her arrival. "Really! Don't make it sound as if I'm the only person who's ever wanted to open presents at Christmas." He turned around to find her setting her plate down on the low table in front of the sofa next to the gifts she'd brought.

She paused to catch his eye before continuing. "Even you have to be fond of presents."

"Oh, really?"

"Mmm hmmm," she nodded, straightening as he moved closer to her. "Everyone likes gifts."

Instead of retaking his seat, as Hermione expected, he stepped in close, took her in his arms and kissed her. Surprised, she still melted into the kiss, glad that her hands were empty of plates and presents so that she could make use of them. As he pulled away, he deposited the gifts he'd been carrying into her hands. "Here. Your gifts."

She was bright-eyed and pink-cheeked again but she couldn't blame the cold for it. "I don't want them," she teased. "After that, I've completely gone off opening them. There are so many other _interesting_ things we could be doing."

She was rewarded with a look from Snape that she'd seen a great deal of when she'd still been his student. "Sit and open them," he ordered. "It was your idea, after all."

"Fine, fine," Hermione agreed laughingly as she sank down onto the sofa next to him, the gifts still in her hands. "You have to open yours, too."

"I never planned to do otherwise," he said, reaching for his own boxes.

There was no ceremony in the opening; they both set at tearing away wrapping paper and other packaging in order to reveal the gifts within.

Snape was more amused than surprised by the bottle of wine. "It appears again," he dryly observed.

"Well, I introduced you to the good kind," she pointed out, smiling as she watched him examine the bottle and its label. "The least I can do is supply you with it now."

He was more surprised -- but still pleased -- with the Venetian glass goblet that accompanied the wine. "This is lovely," he told her, turning it around in his hands. The muted light caught on the glass still visible between the gild and enamel decorations. "Thank you."

"My grandmother collects them," she explained. "She says every connoisseur of wine should have a glass worthy of the wine he drinks."

Hermione's gift was easy to surmise from its distinctive shape. "I know your penchant for books," Snape admitted as he watched her peel away the wrapping. "Still, there's no telling what you've bought yourself and have hoarded somewhere. But, this...I think it's fair to assume that you don't have."

Hermione turned the book over in her hands. "Is this...?"

"A copy of the original tome in which the hayam potion was recorded," he explained. "All other forty or so love potions as well. "They were among his personal writings for years before they were made public. This is a French translation of the Arabic but I remembered you mentioning that you knew the language..."

She flipped through the yellowed pages, nodding absently in answer to his question. It was more than simply a recipe book for potions, she noted: interspersed were paragraphs on the nature of love, loyalty, truth, as well as short lines of verse and erratic notes about potions-making in general. "This is...beautiful," she breathed, her fingers ghosting over one piece of verse.

_Love comes on strong, consuming herself, unabashed._

Her other presents were more practical but no less welcome -- bunches of rare and expensive potion ingredients she'd bemoaned a lack of while she'd been in Peru. They were already packaged for transport and perfectly preserved with the kind of painstaking attention one never got from apothecaries and which made long-distance purchase almost impossible.

Eventually, Snape and Hermione emerged from the darkness of the Hogwarts dungeons, mostly at Hermione's insistence. They ended up walking along the quiet edges of the castle, following a snow-covered path that wound around the grounds and sloped gently toward Hogsmeade. Even though they were in relative solitude on the snowy grounds, the din of excited students carried from the Quiddith pitch and they once saw, at a distance, the shadowy outlines of a massive snowball fight.

"I love the snow," Hermione said, eyes sweeping over the white grounds of Hogwarts where they blended into the dark smudges of the forest. "I love it here at Hogwarts, most of all. It's so different in Peru." The arm she had tucked around Snape's tightened as her feet stumbled a bit. "I've missed it."

"When do you return?" he asked, reaching out with his other hand to steady her.

She smiled her thanks. "After the New Year. Most of the other apprentices aren't coming back for another week or so, so I agreed to come in earlier, help cover their absences."

"I see."

Hermione sighed, brushing away the tiny flakes of snow that caught on her face. "And I probably won't be back for Easter, either. One of the other apprentices -- Marisol -- has invited me to spend the holiday with her family and it's such a short time..." She trailed off, staring off into white distance, her silence as colored with wistfulness as her voice had been. "But I'll be back for the summer, around the same time the Hogwarts term ends, I think."

"And then you'll go back, in the fall," Snape surmised.

"If things continue the way they're supposed to," she answered. Hermione shook her head. "Terrible, isn't it? I can't hardly keep it straight, half the time, whether I'm coming or going." She glanced up at his profile, stark against the whiteness that surrounded them. "Seems very...unfair."

Snape stopped his forward movement, tugging Hermione to a stop with him. She turned to face him questioningly. "I hope you don't mean unfair to me," he said.

"I was leaning in that direction," she admitted, lowering her eyes. "Look at last night: I drop in unexpectedly and then leave when I feel ready. You have to admit that you do a great deal of accommodating my schedule."

"Hermione..." Secure in their solitude, Snape pulled her close, his black robes wrapping around her with the action. "I will admit that our circumstances are not ideal but it's hardly a chore to have a chance to see you when I can."

"Still..." she was watching him uncertainly, her eyes solemn, bright from the cold.

Snape stopped her with a finger against her mouth, the silencing action softening into a caress, the brush of his callused thumb over her bottom lip. "Do you honestly think that I do anything that I don't want to? Really, Miss Granger, I thought you knew me better than that."

At the teasing note in his voice, Hermione's concerns began to fade. Her hands were pressed against his chest, toying with the buttons of his frock coat. "When you put it that way..."

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt," he told her. "I'll blame it on you having spent entirely too much lately with your idiotic friends."

Hermione laughed, the humor lighting her eyes until even Snape reacted, his mouth tugging upward at one corner in a shadow of a smile. She inched her arms around his neck. "I'm sure Harry and Ron will be glad to know your thoughts on the matter, Professor Snape."

"No doubt."

She was about to say more when her eyes strayed over his shoulder to see figures moving toward them. The sheer brightness of the one informed Hermione of who it was. "It looks like the headmaster is coming our way," she told him, nodding in the figures' direction.

Snape glanced over his shoulder. "And, if I'm not mistaken, that tartan next to him is McGonagall."

"Severus..."

He turned back to face her. "Yes?"

"Before they're upon us, I have a favor to ask."

"Yes?"

Hermione tightened her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to hers until their lips were touching. "Will you come home with me to meet my parents?"

* * *

In the end, Snape agreed; but the meeting took place several days after that Christmas afternoon.

True to her resolve, Hermione had confessed the truth of it to her parents that night when she'd returned from Hogwarts. She'd led them to her revelation gently, building from one surprise to another until everything was revealed: that she was in love, with a wizard, who was older than she, who used to be her professor at Hogwarts, who was Severus Snape.

Her parents' reactions had been very much what she'd expected.

"I...see," Mr. Granger had said.

"What?" Mrs. Granger had screeched, as she sprung to her feet to pace. "Are you out of your mind?"

Despite Carolina's initial outburst, her disapproval quickly took the form of sullen silence which Hermione hated more than the yelling. For her mother to go quiet, she had to be exceptionally angry -- and worse, hurt. Given Carolina's outburst, Hermione decided it wise to schedule her parents' first meeting with Snape a few after she actually broke the news.

When the day finally arrived, Hermione felt it best to meet Snape around the corner from her house at the point she'd delegated safe for Apparation. She considered it "presenting a unified front" if they arrived together, instead of having every member of Granger household waiting to bear down on him at the front door.

"Just remember," she reminded him, whispering as she used her key to unlock the door. "It's my mother you have to watch for."

Even though he'd never admit it, Snape was appreciative of her efforts, even if he thought most of them would be ineffectual, at best. He'd given some thought in the last few days of the various ways that the Grangers could react to the meeting and, given his knowledge of basic human nature, none of them prove to be pleasant.

Hermione called out as they stepped into the foyer to alert her parents that they'd arrived and Snape heard a man's voice -- presumably Mr. Granger -- answer back to say that he and her mother were waiting in the library. Hermione smiled nervously at him and ushered him through an open door and into a decidedly Muggle room that was lined with books and a very large thing he knew to be a television. Sitting on the comfortable-looking sofa that commanded one wall of the room were Hermione's parents.

Upon introductions by Hermione, Snape found Will Granger to be a pleasant if nondescript-looking Muggle with light brown hair and a nose that Hermione had inherited. Will shook his hand firmly and met his eyes with a placid serenity that Snape had perfected years before and he easily reflected back.

Caroline Granger, on the other hand, was quiet but far from placid. She radiated tightly-wound control even as she nodded in greeting before retaking a seat next to her husband. Hermione, he saw immediately, took mostly after her mother, though Caroline's features were sharper and her coloring darker. She was attractive in the same practical way Hermione was, although Mrs. Granger, unlike her daughter, had found a solution for her unmanageable hair.

It was Mr. Granger who spoke first, obviously trying to make the effort his tight-lipped and cross-armed wife was not. "Carolina and I aren't very knowledgeable about wizarding society, I'm afraid. Should we call you Professor Snape, or Mr. Snape or...?"

"Professor Snape," Hermione quickly supplied.

"...Severus is fine," Snape offered, almost grudgingly. Given the awkward situation, he supposed that any gesture of amiability could only help matters. He hoped.

"Oh, well, please call me Will," Mr. Granger offered graciously. Then, he nodded to his wife, "and Carolina."

"I prefer Dr. Granger, actually, Professor," Carolina finally spoke, her voice cool. "If you don't mind."

"Mum..." Hermione said warningly, giving her mother a dark look.

"Of course not, Dr. Granger," Snape said, just as coolly. He was unable to keep himself from shooting Carolina the same kind of cutting glance that he'd often bestowed upon his stupider colleagues, but she remained unfazed.

Will echoed his daughter's look toward his wife before he spoke again. "You'll have to excuse Carolina," he said. "You've come as quite a surprise to us."

"So I've heard," he said, glancing toward Hermione.

"We didn't even know Hermione was...seeing anyone," Will explained.

"I thought we'd already discussed this, Dad," Hermione intoned, busying her hands with her teacup.

"I was just explaining to Severus why we're a bit unsettled," Will told her.

"I understand your position, Mr. Granger," Snape admitted.

"Of course, we seemed to be the only ones who didn't know," Carolina added sourly. "Molly Weasley, your friends, your old boyfriends, not to mention your aunt Sophia."

"Mum, I swear..."

"What my wife is trying to say is that we're still playing catch up here," Will finished.

Mrs. Granger let her cup fall down onto its saucer with a loud clatter. Hermione jumped, startled, and Will's head whipped around to stare at his wife. Snape noted dispassionately that she'd barely touched her tea.

"What I am trying to say -- and Will, stop speaking for me, _please_ -- is that we're at a loss on how you expect us to react to this news." Carolina held her head high, staring directly at Snape without any hesitation as she spoke, her words precise and sharp. "My daughter came home from visiting her old boarding school a few days ago to tell me that she was involved with a man â€" a man who was not only twenty years her senior but who had been her _teacher_ from the time she was eleven years old...a man who, in part, we had entrusted her to in _childhood_ to help in her education and her upbringing.

"Can you not see where I have some problems with the current situation? How I cannot help but wonder what sort of inappropriate things might have happened to my daughter during a time when I had obviously been misinformed of her safety, at least in this respect?"

"Mama, that's enough," Hermione said severely.

"Hermione..." Snape raised a hand to quiet the rest of her indignation on his behalf. Hermione acquiesced grudgingly, nodding her understanding as Snape then turned his attention to her mother.

He noticed that Will Granger had said nothing, simply watching the scene with the same calm expression, one that Snape bet hid a great deal of emotion.

"Actually, madam, I _do_ understand your concerns," Snape said. He was no longer filtering his personality through any nicety he might have felt necessary to adopt. "So, I will say this once. Hopefully, it will be enough since I'm sure your daughter has addressed these same concerns before today."

Carolina watched him dubiously, waiting.

"During the time your daughter was my student, our relationship was purely a professional one, one between teacher and student," he said. "In fact, we only interacted in the classroom as I was far from Hermione's favorite teacher in any form. It was only after she had graduated that we began...a friendship of sorts, one that began as academic correspondence on topics relating to her continuing education."

Snape raised an eyebrow and regarded her boldly â€" a look she returned, just as boldly.

"It may be difficult for you to see but your daughter is an intelligent, engaging witch. I doubt it would difficult for anyone to understand how my attitude toward her could change over time. But I assure that it was a _recent_ change, comparatively speaking."

"I'm sorry but your _assurance_ is hardly reassuring," Carolina snapped back. Snape hated to admit it but he found his respect for Dr. Granger rising even as his temper did.

"No, but mine should be more than enough for you, Mama." Hermione's voice was firm, as firm as her mother's. There was anger, too, and sadness, none of it hidden by the melodic hint that tinted her mother's words. "I can't believe you won't simply accept my word and Severus's. Surely, you know me well enough to know that I have better sense than to...that I would never accept anyone mistreating me, no matter my age."

For the first time since his arrival, Snape saw Hermione's mother soften. "You have to understand, cara," Carolina said and her voice was so different that Snape was surprised. "I'm your mother, it's my place to do this, to protect you."

"Carolina..." Will laid his hand on his wife's clenched fist. "I think what Hermione means is that there's nothing to protect her from."

Snape watched as Mrs. Granger glanced from her husband to her daughter, eyes reading their matching steely expressions. She sighed, pulling away from her husband. "Fine," she said stonily, crossing her arms again. She gave Snape one, last stormy look. "I apologize."

"No need, madam," he said magnanimously, though there was as much sincerity in it as there was in her original apology.

"Hermione did explain some of it to us the other night," Will revealed, trying to soothe around the tension that was gathering. "Of course, some of it didn't make much sense to us, being re...Muggles. You know. She mentioned that it had something to do with a potion."

"The hayam," both Snape and Hermione said, almost at the same time.

Will smiled. "Yes, that one. From what I understand you're a...Potions professor?"

"Correct."

"Would you mind explaining the hayam a little to us, then?" Will asked. "It may help clear up some of our...confusion."

From that moment on, Snape vowed to like William Granger. As he lost himself in the familiar tale of the hayam potion, from its creation to its purposes, to what it meant when one had Hermione's peculiar reaction, he could feel his own tension easing, so much so that he was as close to relaxed as he imagined he could be, given the circumstances.

"That's extraordinary," Will said once Snape had finished his explanation. He glanced at his daughter affectionately. "So that's how you knew, hmm?"

"Yes," she admitted, grinning in response to her father. "It was a shock, as you might well imagine!"

"I have a question, Professor." It was the first time Carolina had spoken in almost half an hour, unlike her husband and daughter who'd joined in on the discussion of the hayam.

Snape looked coolly toward Mrs.Granger. "Yes?"

"What would happen if _you_ were to drink the hayam?" Carolina asked, watching him intensely. There was a gravity in her expression that surpassed the anger from before.

He was silent for a moment, considering his words. "Reactions to the hayam do not have to be reciprocal. In fact, they rarely are. The potion measures only the ingester's level of feeling and nothing else. I have never taken the hayam myself."

"I see."

"However..." Snape continued, pausing only to return the warm, glowing look that Hermione was giving him. "Knowing what I do of the potion and my own...attitude, I would think that if I were to take it...I would be extremely surprised if my reaction were not similar to Hermione's."

His words were met with silence and he felt Hermione's hand gently touch his before it skirted away. He looked from her face to her father's and, finally, to her mother's. For the second time since their meeting, Snape noted that Carolina's face had softened, if only fractionally.

"I guess," she said mysteriously, eyes unreadable, "that I'll just have to accept your expert opinion on the matter." She paused. "After all, you are a Potions professor, I hear."

* * *

_  
Author's Notes_: The line of poetry Hermione reads is actually by Rumi, I was much too lazy to make something up on my own, LOL. We're drawing close to the end folks, just hang in there with me for a few more updates. As always, thanks to Beta Goddess Kel for her help, as well as the first-run readers on my LJ who pointed problems I'd missed and gave me the support, encouragement and nagging to get this finished! If you're inclined, please leave a review. 


	26. When I See You Again

**Heart over Mind, part 26 -- When I See You Again**

Hermione,

Given that you left here in a fit of anger, I hope that you'll actually read this and not just throw it away as soon as it arrives. I also hope that you made it back to Peru safely -- of course, I can only hope because I've heard nothing from you since the day you stormed out of the house with yourâ€¦ Professor Snape. I know you're angry but I really don't think your dramatic departure was necessary.

However, I am trying to be understanding at the moment. Grant me some of the same, please?

Cara, you have to know that I've only reacted the way I have because I love you and I worry about you, like any mother should. I know that in many ways, I've given you a great deal of independence -- too much, some have said on occasion -- but I did it with the belief that I'd given you proper the tools to make the right decisions.

Meeting Professor Snape was truly the first time I doubted that fact.

I'm sorry that my honest opinion will upset you but you must see where I'm coming from. I do have a right to my reservations, anyone would if her barely-out-of-her-teens daughter brought home a man old enough to be her father. Perhaps I could've been more polite to the Professor when he came but it was still a shock; I hadn't had time to process it all.

It may not seem this way but I'm not writing to start an argument. I just wanted a chance to explain myself and to make sure that you're fine -- and still speaking to me.

I fervently hope that this is not lining a wastebasket somewhere.

mi manchi as always,  
Mama

* * *

Mama,

I'm going to ignore all the inflammatory words in your letter and concentrate on what I believe is the core sentiment -- your concern and love. I do understand both of them but I don't think you understand mine at all.

In order to soothe the worries that I know you're harboring over this point, I want you to know that I did not spend the remainder of my time in Britain with Severus -- I went to stay at the Burrow.

You weren't the only person who was shocked by my news and I had other relationships to mend. I figured that with both of us refusing to budge at that particular moment, nothing we said to each other would have had much effect other than continuing the hard feelings.

Harry and Ron are slowly coming around to acceptance but they still turn a bit green whenever it passes their minds, I can tell. Ron himself had a few meals he couldn't finish when the topic came up over dinner.

It's funny because I never thought that my strongest ally in the Weasley household would be Molly Weasley but she's been remarkably supportive. I think it has to do with Ginny explaining the hayam to her. I don't really know exactly but it was comforting to have her on my side. Of course, now I'm fielding all sorts of uncomfortable questions from her about my future but it's a different atmosphere than what I experienced originally.

Maybe now that you have had some time to process, you'll at least begin to see my side of things, at least before I come home again. I want you to be happy for me because I'm happy and I'm happy with him. And, yes, I know that sounds terribly overdramatic and clichÃ© but I've been taking lessons from my Aunt Sophia.

I have a very long day ahead of me here at the clinic, so I have to close now.

I do love you, Mama, and this will not be in any wastebasket.

love,  
Hermione

* * *

Hermione,

How's Peru? I hope everything is going well for you there. As I told you at Christmas, I've been working for Fred and George in Diagon Alley. It's mad busy in the shop everyday, no matter if all the children are off at Hogwarts or not. I didn't expect that! I never saw myself as the retail sort but it's keeping me occupied while Harry is off finding himself with Ron -- no doubt wrecking havoc across the continent. Teasing aside, I think it's good he's gotten away. I wish I could've went with him but I think I was right not to. I think he needed time away from everything to figure out the future.

Have you heard from him? He told me that you gave him some very good advice about the future but he didn't tell me what you said. I'm tempted to ask but that would be cheating.

I've heard of him quite regularly -- he actually sent me a gift for Valentine's Day and it arrived a day or so early. It's a lovely little locket with painted flowers on it and I think it's from somewhere in Austria. I can tell he thought it was a very silly trinket but I adore it.

It wasn't the Valentine's Day I'd hoped for but it was enough for now.

With the way things are going at the shop, I'll be a rich woman when he returns. I've been able to save loads of money from work since the twins are paying me on commission and I'm the only salesperson that people trust to help them. No matter the witch or wizard, they're worried that Fred or George are going to play a trick on them when they offer their assistance. They're probably right!

Hope to hear from you soon!

love,  
Ginny

* * *

Hermione,

My hopes that the holiday break would give the students a chance to expend the trying overexcitement that they've had in them since the Dark Lord's demise have been proven false as they've returned to Hogwarts more -- not less -- nauseating. When I expressed such feelings to the headmaster, he suggested that it might be time to consider a career change. It would serve the old goat if I did look into my options; fortunately for him, I am content to remain here for the time being, despite the students.

I hope that your efforts to mend damaged friendships in the wake of the revelations around the holidays have proved successful. If nothing else, I tend to think that you've been successful with Molly Weasley. I happened by her in town a few days ago and she took the time to stop and speak to me without any rancor or condemnation. I don't know what you did bring her around but I almost wish you hadn't since now she seems to think it gives her the leeway to engage me in chatter whenever our paths cross. I hope that this last meeting has disabused her of such a notion.

With excitement from all corners of the Wizarding World winding down, the truth of this new world is finally beginning to set in for many of us -- myself, included. After the false hopes of the Dark Lord's first "defeat," it's strange to try and accept that we have seen the last of him. Dumbledore tells me that I am much too paranoid to be content and that I choose to continue to be unhappy because I find it safer than the alternative.

There is some truth to it. Even now, simply by habit, I find myself doing things that are no longer necessary. When they were necessary, it was a matter of survival but now they are not, they are all of those things he calls them -- pessimistic, gloomy, paranoid. But too many cautious years cannot be changed by only a few months of freedom.

I would agree with him completely if not for you. You are a welcome distraction from all the old habits that I must train myself to forget and when I think of you, I know that there are some things that do make me content.

Perhaps I will improve upon practice.

yours,  
Severus

PS -- I have enclosed something for you. I hope that these blasted birds do not lose it en route.

* * *

Severus,

Leave it to you to relegate a mention of your lovely gift to a hastily scribbled postscript. They are lovely, by the way, and I don't know how you managed to find matching stones when I have the necklace here with me. Don't tell me you got in touch with Madame Ljalja? If you are in contact with her, I hope you gave her all my best.

I agree with the headmaster about teaching -- if you don't like it, stop. There's no point in doing something you don't like, especially now. However, I think that you do enjoy teaching, despite the students and your colleagues and everything else you complain about. Your appreciation for it may not make sense to other people -- myself included -- but I think it's there nonetheless.

However, I do not agree with Professor Dumbledore when it comes to your paranoia -- we all are adjusting and some of us are finding it more difficult than others.

Harry, I know, is finding his newfound freedom daunting and has set off on an extended leave of absence from Britain. From Ginny's last letter, he's in Austria so hopefully he's making some progress. I haven't heard from him or Ron myself yet but we had settled things between us -- mostly -- before I came back to Peru. As for everyone else...my mother has written me and I have written back. She certainly hasn't changed her mind but she's very conciliatory at the moment.

I have no qualms admitting that I miss you -- when I have time to think about it. Things here at Nazca have been frantic since I've returned, to put it mildly. One of our apprentices chose not to return due to some family obligations and while the mediwitches are interviewing new applicants, we are all splitting the extra shifts between us. I'm trying to take as many as I can handle in the hopes of finishing my apprenticeship as quickly as possible. As much as I love this chance and the work I'm doing here, I want to be where everyone I know is only a quick Apparition away.

all my love,  
Hermione

* * *

Dear Hermione,

I know I haven't written you in a long time. I wasn't sure if I was planning to but as soon as me and Ron ended up in Italy, I couldn't get you out of my head and I knew I couldn't put it off any longer. I keep seeing your face in my mind lecturing about all the things we've seen and done. I don't know which is worse, that I keep hallucinating you or that I remember enough of what you said to do it properly.

So, I'm sure that Ginny has told you about the trip that Ron and I are on. So far, it's been amazing, especially for Ron. I decided to do it all as Muggle as possible, so we changed our money at Gringott's before we headed to France by train. So far, we've been in France, Germany, parts of Austria, Switzerland and then we crossed into Italy. Ron doesn't know what to make of half of the Muggle things he sees and does but I think he's got a new appreciation for why his dad is fascinated by this stuff.

For all the fun we're having, I'm not any closer to knowing what I want to do with my life than I was when we left the Burrow. Ron keeps making all these outrageous suggestions -- the last one was something about goat-herding -- and I'm grateful to have some humor at this point.

I know you said I had the time. I'm trying to take it too but it feels weird not doing anything useful. It was actually nice when we stayed in this hostel where we had to do some chores to pay our room and board -- me and Ron are both really good at cleaning house and washing dishes. I guess it's all the practice we had over the years.

I tried to get Ron to write to you too but he says he's not. He did tell me to tell you that he hopes you're fine and that you're having fun in Peru, well as much fun as you can have working all the time. I think he's finally gotten over the whole Snape thing but he's just a little embarrassed by how bad he was acting at Christmas. I'm sorry, too, Hermione because of course we can't live your life for you but...

HONESTLY HERMIONE -- SNAPE!

Anyway, I really like Italy, so I think we'll stay here a while then either go to Greece or maybe Spain. I haven't decided.

sincerely,  
Harry

* * *

Dear Harry,

It was good to hear from you and Ron. Ginny had told me about your trip and I'm glad to hear that it's going well enough.

I know you're frustrated about the future but -- just take your time, Harry. You're a wealthy young man who's already done more than most people do in their lives. If you decide to spend the rest of your life doing nothing but having fun, you've earned it. But since I know you'd never do that, all I can tell you is to take as much time as it takes to make the right decision.

What part of Italy are you visiting next? If you're heading to Tuscany, you should stop by a winery there called Artemisia della Agrotera and ask for the owners, Rosalia or Vincenzo. They happen to be my grandparents and they would be delighted to meet you both and put you up for a few days, free of charge. My grandmother will also feed you until you can't even think of eating another bite and my nonno would show you the entire vineyard. Perhaps you'll find that winemaking is more palatable than goat-herding.

In all seriousness, they would be glad to give you a place to stay and, don't worry, they know all about the magical part so you wouldn't have to hide anything from them.

Tell Ron that I hope he's having a good time as well and that I expect to hear from both of you -- in separate letters! -- very soon. I'm really busy here and it's nice to hear from you as often as possible.

love,  
Hermione

* * *

Hermione,

I guess I should start off by saying thanks for the wedding present that you gave me and Victoria but she's busy writing and sending thank you cards so you'll be getting a proper note soon with all sorts of sparkle showers attached. She's mighty proud of them and they're really nice so I don't want to steal her thunder.

Anyway, how have you been? We've been really good here -- still in that honeymoon stage, as Maureen would say. We had to postpone the actual honeymoon until after Christmas but we spent a nice fortnight on a little tropical island in the Caribbean after New Year's.

Sorry I didn't write you back sooner but for a little bit after we got back things were unsettled and we were staying with the Gringles in Scotland but now we've got ourselves a nice little flat in London. She's busy decorating things and I'm working everyday, paying about as much attention to what I'm doing as Maureen did to classes on a karaoke night -- so basically, I spend the day dreaming about getting home to my little wife. Isn't love grand, old girl?

Speaking of love, how's yours doing? I hope that's working out for you. It'll take a mighty strong woman to deal with that but I guess you're up to the task. If anyone is, that is.

Well, I hope Peru is treating you well and that you're treating your patients well in turn. Again, thanks for coming to our wedding and we'll have to have dinner next time you're in the country -- you can even bring Snape!

your friend,  
Wyatt

* * *

Severus,

I'm sitting here in Marisol's family home and, as lovely as it is here, I keep wishing that I hadn't made the practical decision to stay on this side of the world for Easter holiday. Of course, I'm having a nice time -- Marisol is as wonderful as always, as is her fiancÃ© who I've met a few times before. Then there's her mother who has been very pleasant as well even though we don't understand a word of we're saying to one another since I don't speak much Spanish and she speaks even less English. With Marisol off with Carlos, I'm spend most of my day with her sister, Esperanza, who speaks excellent English and is trying vainly to help me with my Spanish.

Still, as I sit out here on the verandah and write this, I wish I'd skipped the invitation and just come home even if I would've spent most of my holiday traveling. It's not all that long until I'll be able to come home for the summer but time seems to have slowed for me and it can't approach quickly enough. Even this time away from Nazca is crawling at a terribly slow pace because I just want the summer to get here as soon as possible.

Sometimes I hate the practicality that I no doubt inherited from my mother.

When we go to services this evening, I'll be thinking of you.

all my love,  
Hermione

* * *

Hermione,

I can't say that I don't share your wish even though I agree that it was smarter to simply visit your friend for the holiday. Time has always crawled for me at this time of the year with exams close but not close enough and the end of the term a seemingly unreachable destination. Your long absence has made the time even slower and I don't think that anything could keep me from speeding up the clock if it were within my power to do so.

The continuing saga of Draco Malfoy's trial hasn't helped my restlessness any. A verdict is expected any day now but it seems every time they draw close to an end, one side or another produces some new piece of evidence, some new witness. The general population remains divided and the issues convoluted. I have my own hopes for its ending but I'm also too superstitious to commit them to paper before the verdict is announced.

Since I have written the above, Hermione, the verdict has been announced: Malfoy is a free man. While he was found guilty of some lesser crimes, he is no longer incarcerated with only a few limitations placed upon him. The first is that he is under house arrest for the next year until the remainder of the trials have taken place. The public announcement did not say whether this is for his safety or for his punishment but I'd bet the former.

As soon as I finish with this letter, I plan on writing young Malfoy. I know you may not understand my loyalty to him even now but I feel I owe him some guidance at this point in his life. Hopefully with more positive -- or at least, less negative -- influences than the ones he's had in the past, he might remain on a path different from the one his father chose.

yours,  
Severus

* * *

Dearest friend,

I am happy to be writing to tell you that Maureen and I have finally completed our time at Trinity. We just received our exam scores back and we've both managed to pass them -- wonderful news, right? Sometimes I didn't think we'd ever make it to the end and it's been so lonely without you and Wyatt!

After we do a lot of partying over the next week, we're both heading home. Maureen to the US and I'm going back to Canada. From there, I'll probably soon leave for Greece to visit my grandparents. While I'm happy to be finished, I'm very sad, too...it will be much more difficult to stay in touch with you either in Peru or England, me in Canada or Greece and Maureen back in the Muggle world in America. Despite all her love for magic, I think she's going to do like her mother and melt back into the Muggle world that she loves so much.

But we're all (more or less) Muggleborn here! We'll have the internet if nothing else. The world wide web is much faster and reliable than owl post anyway.

I hope your studies are going well in Peru. I hate that I'll be gone before you're back in Britain but we still need to get together when we have the chance. Shockingly, I think the person most upset about our leaving is Craig -- he and Maureen have become quite the pair since you left us and I think one of them is a bit sweet on the other. Of course, Maureen won't tell me a thing and that is never a good sign.

Even though our lives seem determined to keep up separated by miles and miles, our hearts are always close. I'll keep you in my prayers and my thoughts.

love,  
Elena

* * *

Hermione,

I just received a most unexpected letter from Misters Potter and Weasley. Apparently, they are somewhere in Europe and would like to buy you a charm to match your bracelet -- the one I gave you for Christmas a few years ago. Because of this, they wanted to keep it in theme with your Animagus form -- which they seem to be ignorant of, hence their letter to me.

I don't know why you haven't told them yet but if you want them to know, please inform them yourself. I don't think it's my place to breach the student-teacher privilege of our lessons and if you want to keep your Animagus form a secret, it's your decision.

Although, I have to admit that it saddens me that they didn't realize years ago all they needed to do was check the public registry to find out that your form is a caracal -- especially since you were smart enough to know that when you were only a Third Year student.

If not from me, I would at least think they'd learned from you.

Sincerely,  
MM

* * *

My favorite niece,

I hope that you and your mother are well on the road to making up or else she'll never forgive me.

For some reason, she keeps blaming "this whole mess" on me as if I put a gun to your head and said, "Please, cara, fall in love with some man that your mother is sure to disapprove of!"

Now, I might have thought it but I did nothing to encourage it. Really, not much at all. And I've spoken to her more in the last few months than I did all of last year â€" a fact some might see as a blessing but I am not one of those people. Even knowing that I have you to thank for it in some indirect way, I do not hold it against you -- you are still my favorite niece!

I never heard if you liked my gift. You did, yes? I thought it was marvelous and quite useful and practical. Of course, I do not know what you magical people have in terms of such items but every women needs some kind of gadget of that type -- for pleasure, you know -- and this is the best of its kind, I promise. Also, since I've been told that your lover is older than you -- your mother always reminds me that the difference is over two decades by her count -- you might need something like that for yourself.

Luckily, older means more experienced and there is nothing better than that kind of initiation. (I know you are looking mortified about now but I know enough of you to know that you are still a blushing virgin. You are Carolina's daughter, after all!)

Just trust me on this, cara.. There is a reason that my first husband was twelve years my senior.

Now that I write of seeing your face -- and I can well imagine it in my mind -- I realize how long it has been since we've sent time together, you and me. You must come to France and visit me this summer when are back from America. Bring your dashing wizard lover, even. I would like to meet him.

love always,  
Sophia

* * *

Severus,

I hope your correspondence with Draco is coming along as you'd hoped; you're right that I can't completely understand but in some ways, I guess I do.

This isn't the first time you've done something that I don't understand and I'm sure it won't be the last. Just -- don't let yourself be drawn back into any espionage, if you can. You seemed sure that that part of your life was behind you when last we spoke of it. I'd hate for old obligations to draw you back into something you seemed glad to be rid of.

I'm sorry that my own letters have lagged. I wish I could blame the transcontinental postal service but I really can't blame anyone but myself. I recently had the opportunity to take on another project here at the institute and, after serious thought, I agreed. I don't think I've been this stretched for time in years and it's jarring to go from the relatively relaxed schedule of university to the demands on me here. Of course, it was my own decision and I don't regret it. If everything works out the way I want, this project will change a great deal of things for me. I'm giving it and my other duties everything I can which means that I usually fall into bed as soon as we finish our last meal. Marisol has been very helpful, taking over some of my daily chores around our bungalow.

I can't wait until summer is here and I can come home. I think I've missed being home more this semester than I have of any past and, yes, I contribute some of that to you. Frankly, it has to be you -- Harry and Ron, who I do miss, are currently somewhere in Southern Europe and my mother and I haven't quite recaptured our ease of communication. So at the moment, you are the most spectacular draw of home.

There's something that my American friend here sometimes says: "hurry up and wait." By that he means having to rush to do something, only for nothing to happen â€" at least immediately, as expected. I feel like the last few years have been nothing but that. First it was getting through Hogwarts, then Trinity, now Nazca...everything in my life other than study put on hold. It didn't matter as much...before. But now I'm finding it quite irritating.

Since I can barely keep my eyes open, I think it's time I close. I hope everything is going well for you and I can't wait until we're once again on the same continent.

all my love,  
Hermione

* * *

Hermione,

Let me allay your fears: I have no desire to be drawn back into what you call "espionage." As I told you before, I am thankful to leave that part of my life behind me. Dumbledore served me well by making sure that I could quietly extricate myself from what is currently an extremely messy situation and nothing will induce me to render his efforts useless now by becoming re-involved.

However, I do feel that Draco needs some support and he isn't likely to find it anywhere else at the moment. Both his parents are dead and any allies his family might have had are implicated or imprisoned. Mistakes made after the Dark Lord's first "defeat" have created a judicial body and public who are almost devoid of compassion and understanding of anything other than complete defiance to the Death Eaters and their mission, though some of those that are now out for blood were the same ones who didn't believe in his return until it was almost too late.

As for your new project, I'm sure it's going well simply because I know how determined you are to succeed at everything you do. Although I can't help but wonder if you're pushing yourself to do too much especially since the school is still searching for new candidates, I have faith â€" misplaced, perhaps â€" that you've learned a little self-restraint over the last few years and you won't fall prey to overextension.

I well understand your frustration when you speak of having to "hurry up and wait." I spent most of my life doing the same thing as I waited for the Dark Lord to be vanquished, only to have it happen but know that he'd come back some day. It's a trying feeling, that of apprehensive anticipation. Of course, anyone who knew the truth about the Dark Lord or who knew to trust Dumbledore lived with the same knowledge of the inevitable and I think, for many of us, the truth of our freedom from it is only now starting to sink in properly these months later.

I just never expected to be one of the ones who'd have something worthwhile waiting on the other end.

Yours,  
Severus

* * *

My dearest Hermione,

It came as a great shock to find two nice young men at my door a few days ago asking me if I was the grandmother of you. Yes, I say, and they explained that they were friends of yours, the great Harry and Ron I hear so much about all the time! They stayed for supper but would not stay for the night even when I offered most sincerely. They were very nice boys and polite and helpful and they insisted on cleaning the dishes after we ate. Your nonno liked them, too. What a nice surprise to meet them here at my home. It was like having a bit of you here with me, too, as we shared stories about you.

I have been meaning to write to you since Christmas about what Sophia told me and then your mother calling to say â€" that you have found a great love. That makes me happy to hear, for anyone. Love is such a wonderful thing for us all.

Carolina has told me of her concerns about the man in question and she is worried about you past expression by her words but I can hear it in her voice every time we speak of it. I hope you are not too hard on her, cara â€" your mother is a funny kind of girl and always has been.

I want to tell you a story, Hermione, about the first time I met William, your father. I confess that I did not think he would be a good husband for my Carolina from the moment she began to tell me about him, not only because he is not Catholic or Italian. No, it was other things, too. Your mother said he was a nice man, that he was smart, that they had the same goals to become dentists. She said he was quiet and unhurried and easy â€" nothing at all like my Carolina.

Of course, now I know that I was wrong and that William is the perfect one for Carolina and I will tell you when I knew for sure. It was the first time I met them together and Carolina took his hand and introduced him to me and in doing so, the two of them smiled at each other and I could see that they loved each other.

You see, the reason that I did not think that your mother should marry your father was that never in everything she said about him did Carolina say that she loved him and that worried me. Your mama, always so level-headed and removed â€" I did not want her to be marrying some pale Englishman only for his kindness and his interest in being a dentist. I wanted her to find the perfect match, the man who was for her to love forever. Lucky for everyone, William was that man and my Carolina had chosen with her heart for once and I was happy for her.

The trouble then and now is that Carolina takes that kind of love granted â€" she does not really understand it. Oh, she loves your father and knows he loves herâ€¦but she does not really know how lucky she was to find him because it was easy for her. Most people do not have that kind of luck and I am glad that one of my daughters had it. Sophia searches still and, like me, she understands how special it is. Me and your nonno, we faced very difficult times together but it was worth it because I knew he was the special one for me.

All the years that you were growing up so far from me, this was my worry for you. You were so much like your mother that I worry that you will learn to think with only your mind and not your heart. That would be such a tragedy for anyone but especially you because I can see the passion you have for the world around you. Of course, it used to be books and knowledge and then magic and then your friends â€" now, I am glad that it for this man if he treats you as he should.

Carolina tried to explain this hayam magic to me and I think I understand it. I also think it is a wonderful thing and that the wizard who made them was a great man to devote so much time to love. And it proves as I always thought that you have a strong heart and that you will listen to it. It seems to have led you to this wizard who loves you the same even though you were separated by everyone and everything.

To come together through that is a sign of great love, cara. Given what I know of you and from you and your mother and your aunt, I think you are smart enough to know the truth of this. You can see how lucky you are and I know how lucky he is. Make sure he knows this, too.

Love,  
Nonna Rosalia

* * *

Nonna,

There is so much I want to say to you for your letter but, like my mother, I think it past expression in words.

Just -- thank you.

Love,  
Hermione

* * *

Severus,

I know that I have promised faithfully over the past few months that I'd be home by the time the term at Hogwarts finished but I'm afraid that that's not the case. The second project in which I've become involved demands that I stay a little longer in order to complete it.

If current calculations are correct, I should be home by early July at the latest.

I have been pining for home almost since the day I left and now I've managed to disappoint both of us.

I'll see you as soon as I can.

All my love,  
Hermione

* * *

_Author's Notes_: I won't bore you with much since I'm saving most of them for the end. Only one chapter left! 


	27. Love is

**Heart over Mind: Love is...**

Hogsmeade was already aglow by the time Hermione Granger reached the dark edges of the village. It was late; the sky was ink-dark and crisp against the red-gold aura that gilded every wall and storefront, the culmination of every torch, lamp and bonfire lit the citizens had lit in honor of the Midsummer.

Hermione loitered near the empty train platform for a moment, simply soaking in the ambience -- the village, the castle standing silent in the distance, the slumbering landscape that felt both familiar and strange. Months spent on the Nazca plains had made the dense line of trees and lush greenness alien even as she felt herself relax from the hominess of it.

Unlike her last visit to Hogsmeade's Midsummer celebration, Hermione arrived alone -- and with flowers already in her hair. She'd plucked a single rose from her mother's garden and threaded it into the ribbon that loosely held her hair away from her face, the outer petals resting heavy against her neck, just under her ear.

In that respect, she'd come prepared.

Hermione ambled toward the village's brightness, toward the smell of spices and the jaunty music that floated out from the celebrating crowds. As she edged her way into the town proper, she could see the mass of people jostling good-naturedly, juggling food and wine and loved ones. But even from a distance, she could discern the line of men waiting to jump the bonfire, and she smiled remembering Wyatt's attempt from the year before.

Sliding into the merry throng, Hermione's mood lifted, carried by the crowd's. She'd been afraid that she would miss the festival this year and that fear had been too much of a reality for too long. But somehow, she'd managed to make the stars align in her favor so that she could be there in Hogsmeade.

"Well, well, look who we have here!"

It took Hermione a moment to recognize the cheerful, old voice but as soon she turned to see the elderly apple-face grinning at her, she laughed. "Madame Ljalja!"

"Who else?" the old woman asked, waddling forward to squeeze Hermione's hands in affection. "I thought I might see ye here," she added with a wink.

Hermione only smiled in response to the wink, returning the pressure of her hands. "Come to enjoy the festival, have you?"

"What, me? No, m'dear. I'm too old for that. Somebody's got to sell my wares, girl." The old witch tugged her along, Ljalja's many beaded necklaces twinkling with their movements.

"I thought you were retiring," she pointed out, letting herself be led into the crowds, past familiar faces she might have spoke to otherwise.

Ljalja cackled. "So I was! But little Severus was right in doubtin' me. I'll retire when I'm dead, and that'll be soon enough." She stopped addressing Hermione long enough to yell something wickedly blunt at a couple who blocked their path, too engrossed in one another to notice their crime. "Travel and sellin' is in my blood as much as the magic is."

Hermione nodded in understanding.

"Well, my girl, speaking of selling..." Ljalja slowed and dropped her hand so that she could turn and face her. They were standing close enough to the dancing area that the music was full and loud in her ears, no longer simply a stray note in the back of her mind. The tune was lively and Hermione could almost feel the vibrato of the strings humming through her veins. "I have to get back to my wares if I plan to make myself a profit tonight." There was a gleam in her eye as she added, "You should stop by before ye leave."

Hermione nodded. "I will. It was good to see you again, Madame Ljalja."

"Please, call me Grandma," Ljalja said, grinning, before she barreled into the crowds once more. "I expect to be seeing ye!"

She watched the squat figure be swallowed by the crowds and she took a deep breath, eyes surveying the revelry around her. No longer seeing anyone she knew, Hermione approached one of the food-laden tables and found herself a glass of spiced wine, cushioning her stomach with a bit of sweet cake and a handful of strawberries, mindful to save her clothes from the stains of berry juice or wine. But even while she ate and returned merry wishes of happiness to those in the crowd familiar enough -- or inebriated enough -- to shout them at her as they passed, Hermione kept her eyes searching, moving over the people with an impatient sharpness that anyone would've recognized for what it was.

She was waiting for someone.

Caught up in the spectacle of other celebrants, Hermione had no idea how long she waited there before she sensed his presence. She didn't see him immediately but she could feel him; she twisted around until she found him with her eyes, standing just outside the shadowy nook created between two shops, slightly away from the masses milling through the streets.

Snape was dressed similarly to how he'd been the year before, simple clothing, no cloak. But instead of a tunic whose color mimicked the night sky, he wore one whose shade echoed the wine in her glass, the rose in her hair, the berry juice that stained her fingers. His dark eyes were steady and warm on her and she felt her blood reacting to it, even with the distance of the street separating them. He waited casually in the shadowed spot, graceful in his stillness.

Hermione set aside her half-drunk glass of wine and headed his way, her eyes never leaving his.

"I was wondering when you'd get here," she remarked once she was within a comfortable hearing distance.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I think your attendance was rather more in question than mine."

She accepted the blunted rebuke with a quick nod. "I know. I'm sorry for that."

"As you should be," he told her, his mouth threatening to lose its harsh shape for the curving line of a smile.

Hermione answered with a grin of her own, a sly, sharp smile. "If someone didn't know you, they might believe that your choice of meeting place and time was meant to be a romantic gesture."

She'd reached him by then and she had little warning before he drew her to him, pulling her close and farther into the shadows, away from roving eyes. "If they knew you, they'd understand that this was the only way I could finish up my work this evening without you bothering me."

"Are you saying I'm a _distraction,_ Severus?"

"I'm saying you're a _nuisance,_ Hermione."

Laughter threatened to bubble from Hermione's throat at his dry humor but it never had chance because he chose that moment to kiss her, arms tightening around her. It wasn't until she responded, twining her arms around his neck, that she realized how exhilarating it felt to finally be there with him, after so long apart. Dimly she was aware that her hands were shaking with the unexpected rush of emotion and she buried them in the material of Snape's tunic in hopes of steadying them.

"Am I now?" she asked breathlessly when they pulled apart, her voice light with laughter and mischief.

Snape caught the nuance and responded in kind. "Usually worth the bother, I'll admit."

"Thank heavens," she smiled with a coquettish toss of her head. "Otherwise, I'd worry that you'd give me up entirely."

"It was a very near thing," he warned.

She gasped her surprise which melted into laughter at the wicked gleam in his eyes. She'd heard before that someone could be drunk on happiness but she'd never quite felt that way until that night. She couldn't help but smile, laugh, tease -- she was heedlessly, recklessly drunk with joy.

Snape released her and stepped from the shadows, offering her his arm. "I believe you had your heart set on enjoying these festivities again this year?"

"I did," she agreed, taking his arm, settling in close to him, as close as she'd wanted to the year before but hadn't dared. "Lead on, Professor."

There were things, Hermione had learned the year before, that one simply had to do at the Midsummer festival and those were the things that she and Snape did first. They sampled the free wine and food, and watched the young men try, sometimes in vain, to leap over the bonfires. They meandered through the crowds, but not rushed or nervous or uneasy as they'd been together the year before when both of them had been too unsure of themselves and each other to truly enjoy their time.

"That's quite the ensemble," Snape said after awhile, raking his eyes over her from head to toe. She noticed that his gaze lingered on the rose tucked into her hair before it drifted up to her eyes.

"Thank you," she said with a little nod of her head. "I was quite taken with this dress myself."

She'd bought the dress over Easter when she'd been taken with homesickness, regretting her decision to stay in America for the holiday. Noticing her melancholy, Marisol's sister had taken her shopping, had worked to keep her too busy to notice her own sadness; it had been on one of their many excursions that she'd found the beautiful garment. It was in a style most associated with traditional Mexican dress: made of pristine white cotton, with a full tiered skirt and edged in lacy crochet work. It was a far cry from the sleek, satiny dress that Sophia had once given her but it also seemed to fit the Midsummer night as much as that elegant piece once had.

Snape was still watching her intently. "I was more in mind of this," he corrected her softly. They were huddled into another quiet alcove -- he was adept at finding them, she noted absently -- and he slid his hand over the lacy edge of the bodice and up over the bare skin of her shoulder and the line of her neck, until it rested lightly against her throat, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin behind her ear. She shivered.

"This?" she echoed, distracted, eyes dreamy.

He curled one finger in response, tracing a distinctive pattern on her skin. Magic sparked in its wake, shimmering against the bright blue ink that outlined the spiral Snape's finger had followed.

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that." His fingers deliberately brushed over the mark's surface again. "Think I wouldn't notice it?"

"Hoping, perhaps?" she admitted. "At least not so early in the evening."

His eyebrows rose at her statement. "Obviously, you have yet to realize the attention I've paid you these last visits if you didn't think I'd notice that you've gained a rather remarkable tattoo."

"Do you know what it means?"

"I have some rather vague notions of what it could mean," he told her wryly. "I have some first hand experience with this kind of magic."

She gently laid her hand over his where it rested against her neck, offering a comfort that he probably didn't need to receive but that she needed to give.

It was old territory that they'd first breached when she'd helped him gather mistletoe the year before, one eroded over long evenings since, but slowly and cautiously; a testing of the waters. But she could see that it risen up in him again, if only for that one moment.

"It's nothing like that."

"I didn't think it was," he told her. "But it's ancient magic. I can feel it."

"That's not always a bad thing, Severus," she said quietly, thinking of Harry, thinking of the hayam.

"True," he finally answered, slow and measured, as if he'd given it deep thought.

Suddenly, Hermione decided that Hogsmeade was not where they needed to be, not for the conversation she wanted to have with him. "Oh, come on," she said determinedly, taking him by the hand. "Let's get out of here."

Snape said nothing but let her lead him away from the celebration until they skirted into the edge of the forest, retracing the steps they'd once taken in search of summer mistletoe. Only once did Snape question her actions, a sardonic "How far must we walk before you're able to speak again?" as he continued to follow her. Along the way, Hermione had drawn her wand to cast a _scantilla_ spell and the warm air was alive with its lightning dust by the time they reached the ancient oak.

Snape gave the tree one long look before he glanced back at Hermione.

"You are nauseatingly sentimental," he noted simply.

Hermione smiled.

"Well, Miss Granger, I assume your ability to speak has returned by now?" He leaned against the old oak, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes, however, were intent, curious. "I'm waiting."

"I'm sorry," she began. "For the rather manic and mysterious nature of some of the letters I've sent you since Christmas."

"You said you were busy," he said, dismissively. "It's not as if the reverse hasn't occurred."

Hermione took a deep breath and crossed her arms as well, her eyes serious but glittering. "I was working on something but I wasn't sure it was going to work out." She gave him a rueful grin. "I don't do well with failure, you know. I didn't want you -- anyone -- to know what I was doing in case I failed."

"Since you're telling me, I assume you didn't fail?" Snape asked.

Her expression brightened, growing more luminous as the seriousness began to melt away. "No, I didn't."

"And it has something to do with the -- marking?" He touched the place on his own neck where he'd once touched Hermione's.

Hermione nodded. She was fighting a losing battle with the giddiness she felt earlier, her anticipation quelling any lingering nervousness. She moved closer to him, pulled her heavy gather of hair away from her neck, tilting it to expose it fully to the soft glow of light put off by the spelled light dotting the air around them. "It's the mark of the healer, granted by the Nazca School," she explained quietly. "It's an ancient tradition, or so I'm told, but they still observe it as a mark of honor."

She paused and let her words sink in, the silence cluttered only by the sounds of the silent trees and the faint strains of music floating up from Hogsmeade. Hermione was surprised that it was still discernable so deep in the wood.

"I thought you had another year left on your apprenticeship?" Snape asked her, oddly broken. Surprised, she guessed.

"I did," she admitted, straightening her neck to stare at him squarely. "But as much as I relished the chance, I was tired of having an ocean between me and everyone I love. Between us."

He ran his finger lightly over the tattoo once again, watching its magic spark. "It's very new."

Hermione chuckled. "Yes. I only managed to finish everything a few days ago. I wasn't sure I would make it back in time for the Midsummer. I don't think I would've survived if I hadn't."

"I'm sure you would've," he said with confidence, pulling him toward her, into the circle of his embrace. She wrapped her arms around him, let her weight sag against him even as the bark of the old tree bit into the exposed skin of her arms. 

"I'm not so sure," she whispered against his neck where she'd buried her face. Her voice trailed away, soft and confessional, unsure.

It seemed strange to admit her own weakness, how much she'd missed him, even though his letters had professed a similar longing. Perhaps her trepidation came from the fact that there would be no more leaving, no more snatched visits and then months of pining, months of separation. Their time together had finally come, years after her first realization of feeling, almost a year after she'd come to accept it and still months after his own confession had brought them together. It had been a limbo, in some ways worse than the time when she'd been sure of her unreturned love.

"I must admit I am glad you didn't postpone again," he told her, his voice near her ear, rumbling deep as his breath whispered against her skin. His quiet admission matched her own in feeling and he tightened his arms around her, saying more through touch than word.

Hermione sighed, a contented sound. She pulled away a little, creating enough space so that she could look into Snape's face As she watched him, the smile that wouldn't turn his mouth lit his dark eyes. "You know..." she began, nodding upwards. "We're standing under mistletoe."

"Is that some sort of veiled hint?"

"Maybe," she admitted, closing the distance she'd created. "Actually, definitely."

And then she kissed him, like she'd wanted to do for the months they'd been apart, fueled by a desperate desire that was out of place in the here-and-now but still lingered in her memories of the lonely nights she's endured in Peru. Snape didn't seem to mind and responded with equal passion; when they finally pulled apart, Hermione was dizzied and dazzled by the fact that she was the one now pressed against the old oak's trunk.

"You are either nauseatingly sentimental or impressively devious," he announced, amused. He gentled his hold on her and lifted a hand to ghost against her cheek, to soften his words.

"I vote the latter," she smiled dreamily, content to let silence cloak them once more.

Snape grew serious in the lengthening quiet. "Have you made plans? Now that you've finished your apprenticeship."

"No," she admitted. "Not anything substantial. I've -- I've had some offers but nothing I've accepted. St. Mungo's, of course, but I don't think that's where I belong."

"No," he agreed, touching the Nazca spiral again.

"I'll find the right place," she said with conviction. "Eventually. I have -- time."

"Yes," Snape said. "As improbable as it seems in the Wizarding World, you do."

"And..." Hermione leaned into his touch, the hand lingering on her neck. "My decisions no longer simply affect me. I didn't -- I wouldn't make decisions without talking with you first."

He remained serious. "I would never dream of telling you what you could or could not do, Hermione."

"I know," she told him, and she meant it. "But what you think matters to me. If you haven't figured that out yet."

Finally, his expression softened. "I have some inkling of that, yes." She smiled and Snape's lingering hand inched down her shoulder. "I want you to make choices that will make you happy. Beyond that..."

Hermione leaned forward, pressing in closer to him. "I'm already happy, Severus. Here and now. Well, now that I won't be running off in the morning to disappear for months on end. Being here makes me happy. _This_ makes me happy."

Snape settled his eyes on her, dark and hot and knowing. "My sentiments exactly."

The faint strains of music from the village seemed to swell and the melody floated around them, distant but clear. Hermione looked at him expectantly. "You still owe me a dance," she reminded him.

"Do I?"

She nodded. "From last year when you ruined my chances to dance with someone else--"

"He was being completely inappropriate---"

"And you refused to dance with me--"

"I believe your memory of the incident in question is faulty--"

Hermione held her finger against his lips, cutting off his words. Her next words were whispered, soft. "Dance with me, please."

Snape sighed but took the hand she'd held against his mouth and led her a few steps away from the ancient oak. "Nauseatingly sentimental," he declared even as he pulled her into his arms.

Unlike their first awkward try at a dance a year before, their two bodies slowly began relax into the rhythm of the music and they swayed softly in time with the echoes that reached them. Hermione had always wondered how something could be so happy that it was sad but that feeling was upon her, bringing unexpected tears to her eyes as she stood there, wrapped in Snape's arms.

She wanted to blame the rollercoaster of emotion she'd been on the last few days -- finishing her apprenticeship, coming home, coming there -- but she couldn't help but feel that that was only the tiniest part of it. The voice inside her that sounded like her Aunt Sophia, that sounded like her heart, said it was nothing more or less extraordinary than the magic of that perfect moment -- than love.

"Hermione..."

She looked up, startled by his voice after the moments of silence, by the uncharacteristic emotion in it. She gave him a questioning look.

Snape caught her eyes fearlessly, intent, watching her as she watched him. "I am not the type to say things that I do not mean and I have never been one to make promises lightly. I was taught that they are too important for frivolous overuse and that to break them easily is to dishonor yourself, no matter how dishonest the promise might have been."

Hermione nodded, a quick movement of her head, knowing how much his words bared of him.

"As much as I would like to, I cannot promise you forever," he continued, his voice as soft and silken as she'd ever heard it even though it caught on the emotions he had chosen to reveal. "I don't believe in the future and haven't for a very long time. I am trying to change but I'm afraid that I'm too old to do it again."

"Severus," she murmured, interrupting. "You don't --"

This time it was his fingers against her lips that quieted words. "What I _can_ say is that I care for you, as you know. That I love you and that I don't expect that to change in all of the years I have left. Feeling this way at all was extraordinarily unexpected; I don't think I can take any more surprises rising from my own--"

"I love you, too," she interrupted again, with a finality that stopped Snape mid-sentence. "And that's enough."

Snape didn't reply, at least not in words. But he kissed her again, passionate, lovely, abandoned, and Hermione knew that what she'd said had been absolutely true.

This was enough, what they had. They didn't need words or formal ceremonies or anything else to give it more meaning than it had; they didn't even need approval or acceptance from anyone who didn't stand with them in that grove with the ancient oak and its mistletoe. It would always enough -- more than enough.

And while he could not say it in words or pretty phrases, Hermione could hear forever in every breath and touch they shared, in every look and caress; luckily for them both, she was the perceptive sort.

**THE END.**

_Author's End Notes_: There are a lot of things that I thought I'd want to say when I was finished with HOM but now that I am, I'm not sure what it was. HOM has been a long, long journey in fic-writing, one that started four years ago with a funny little idea that wasn't meant to last past the first scene or two. Then it morphed into an outline which included ten chapters and about 20,000 words and then slowly it became what it is today. When I started in earnest writing on this, I had a few objectives: I wanted to create a real family for Hermione, one with character and uniqueness and that fit my perception of what kind of people who could produce a child like her; I wanted to write some of my favorite tropes from the HGSS fic sphere and use them in a fic; I wanted to write a story that didn't necessarily rely on sex to keep the readers interested; and I wanted to write a HGSS romance that felt realistic and plausible -- hence the very slow build.

I'm not sure if I succeeded in all this but I've come to the end and I'm glad for it. One part of me wants nothing more than to yank this thing down and do a symbolic violence on it in the form of major editing and revising but I just don't have the energy for that! So HOM will probably stand as is, in its imperfect form, as you see it now.

I want to thank all of my readers who've sent me encouragement over the years and who've stuck with me despite months without updates, the whining on my LJ and my periodic resentment of all things HOM. It was for y'all that I finished this and I hope the ending didn't turn out too badly!

As always, thanks to Beta Goddess Kel! And special thanks to PookaSeraph and Tai for helping me through this last chapter.

This is your last chance, so -- if you feel inclined, leave a review.


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